


The Five Lords

by AphroditeB00w, Storylover



Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: Did I say slow burn?, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Eventual Otabek Altin/Yuri Plisetsky, F/M, Gen, God of War - Freeform, Gods AU, Hurt/Comfort, Long-Haired Yuri Plisetsky, M/M, Multi, POV Otabek Altin, Romance, Slow Build, Slow Burn, Sports, Yuri, blow-job, cam-boy yuuri, camboy, cock-tease, five gods, fuck tags, god of hurbis, god of money, god of sex, god of tech, god yuri, human otabek, lingering looks, online porn, otabek is sporty, otayuri - Freeform, world's best blow job, yuri is a god
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-09-26
Updated: 2018-03-24
Packaged: 2019-01-05 13:28:59
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply, Underage
Chapters: 18
Words: 44,158
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12190848
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AphroditeB00w/pseuds/AphroditeB00w, https://archiveofourown.org/users/Storylover/pseuds/Storylover
Summary: Otabek Altin wants, needs, to succeed in life. When an unexpected injury threatens to ruin his entire future sporting career, he turns to the gods...and they heard.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [story_weaver](https://archiveofourown.org/users/story_weaver/gifts).



> I was never going to write another AU for this couple I swear it. I was dead set against it cos I don't do that. but two thing shappene.  
> 1) my editor is to blame. go nag her.  
> 2) I got so fucking tired of seeing this rash of fics where Yuri is a fuckboy/slut/slave/sub/sex worker/ prostitute/ permanent bottom/ weak thing/ twink. There is a place for it, I love a good fic, but its like HC took over canon. In my mind Yuri is not like that. He is determined, persistent, very clever and vicious. In additon, Otabek has always seemed the type to adore and follow Yuri wherever he goes. SO.
> 
> This happened.
> 
> Enjoy.  
> again, blame story lover.

“ _Otabek Altin_.”

Otabek’s eyes flew open, pupils dilated, doused in fear from something his ears hadn’t heard but his brain had.

“ _I know you hear me Otabek Altin_.”

His heart raced, though there was absolutely nothing threatening there, in his bedroom, ceiling lit with faint light seeping through his curtains form the street. At three AM, there were no noises from the street, no cars, no late night teenagers deciding that late night clandestine trips to the local (if not choosey) liquor store was worth the risk of feeling shitty the next morning, school bedamned.

No there was nothing, only the voice in his head.

“ _Well, we heard you. And it’s time to come to us, Otabek_.”

The voice was feminine, but lacking any of the pubescent twang of girls his age. It was low and sultry, like heavy summer heat. The voice knew things. So many things, the kinds of things that Otabek might imagine when jerking off in the shower.

But now it just made him shiver.

“Who are you?” he whispered, shocked all over again by the sound of his own voice.

But there was nothing, the tendril –like presence had slipped from his mind like a cold octopus, leaving him feeling vaguely sullied. He watched the decade old plane mobile that had hung above his bed since forever, the dust so thick on the top side of the little models so that the colour was changed, and gulped his heart back into his throat.

 

-8-

 

“Do you think he’ll come?”

“Of course he’ll come darling. Who could resist me?”

“Anyone with eyes?”

“Fuck you, little upstart.”

“Right back at ya, hag.”

“Could you two not? I hope he does. This one looks interesting.”

“They always do.”

“Then they let us down.”

“Hmm, not this one. I have a feeling.”

“I trust your feelings like I trust Napoleon to win Waterloo.”

“You still sour over that? Build a bridge, darling.”

“He was a bad investment. Bowie wasn’t.”

“He’s dead.”

“Exactly. So we need new meat.”

“A new sacrifice.”

All five voices spoke now.

“A new sacrifice.”

 

-8-

 

When Otabek Altin was told that his school team, the Gold Tigers, would be playing in the final away game at the Sacramento Hughes Stadium, he’d been ecstatic.  Coach had all but promised him he would be seen, scouted and receiving offers before he could get back to the changing rooms. His grades were better than up, his game was in top form, and he and his sprawling family were looking at his future and getting a tan form the shine.

Then fucking Chris, the mother fucking fuckity _fuck_ , had ‘accidently’ tripped him up during practice. Soccer had never been a cheap sport; it took its payment in injury. But there was no way that Chris had just so happen to shove his spiked heel into Otabek’s arch hard enough to puncture skin, and at just the wrong angle that he would turn in ways his bones shouldn’t and come down on it. A sprained ankle. It was nothing. But it was everything. With the game next weekend, unless he was fully healed, he would never get to go, never get seen, never get scouted, never go to college... his entire future was down the toilet because of a sprain. Because of fucking Chris. Almost literally.

He probably shouldn’t have dumped the guy so close to end of season. Or dated someone on the team in the first place. But shit had happened. And this was the case.

He’d seen the look on his mother’s face when he came home limping with a crutch. She’d fussed and fretted, putting ice onto it and offering him things to eat, as if she could feed the injury away. His father had come home from work, seen the bandage on his foot elevated and immediately found the phone. Otabek could hear him arguing with his coach in their native language, sounding angrier than he would have otherwise. Russian wasn’t an elegant language. Russian had invented vodka in the middle of winter, it had no space of prettiness. His coach, also from Kazakhstan, obviously argued back because his father had stopped speaking, stamped back through the small kitchen and back out the door with nary a word for other Otabek, his mother, or any of their other 4 children.

Otabek had eaten his tasteless dinner in silence that night, and gone upstairs to bed early, citing homework. Through thin walls, he heard his father’s return from the bar, and the way his parents argued with voices that weren’t raised but audible, until Otabek found his earphones and drowned them out. He was the only one of his siblings who was allowed his own room, as a kind of investment in what a treasure he was going to be, the gold star on top of the Altin tree. Now it felt like a heavy, guilty burden.

Desperation can make you do really dumb, really ridiculous things. And then feel like an idiot afterwards.

He’d taken the pain tablets and washed them down with the single beer he’d smuggled in for himself, courtesy of the school contraband procurer, JJ. After all if he was going to drink a warm beer, that was the perfect night for it.

“How to become healthy….how to become…better? How to win?” he murmured to himself, typing it into the search engine on his laptop screen. “Quick fix…quick heal…”

He was aware he was a little tipsy, though this was inaccurate, because Otabek Altin, who was a paramount of good behaviour and role-modelship, had never actually been drunk or had more than few sips of champagne at a party. Now, with the pain meds fizzing away in a soup of not-lite beer in his belly and bubbling into his bloodstream, he was not tipsy at all but quite solidly in the ‘drunk’ category.

So when his drunken meanderings through the endless train of thought that is the internet pulled up a ritual, he shrugged, giggled a little and said “Sure why not.”

Otabek didn’t have enough space on his floor to draw a pentagram, and if he had his mother would have wailed anyway, but he did have a piece of paper and some crayons left on the floor from when his youngest brother had obviously been in there earlier.

“Ha, it’s the Olympic symbol. Except for the black one. Wait, there’s supposed to be a black one…” He said to no-one in particular and draw the five coloured circles in each point anyway. This was after he’d drawn and gotten wrong a pentagram several times. He squinted at the laptop screen again.

“…blood, yuck, ok. Wait, spit is fine.” He blew a wet raspberry at the paper in his hands then giggled at his juvenile behaviour. “And then...um…oh. I want to be better. Like, my ankle. I want it to be healed? And I want to win the game against the Cobras. And maybe Chris should breakout in backne or something. I, Otabek Altin, ask this of the Five Lords.”

He chuckled again, then it died. He stared at the scrawl of a ritualistic marking without seeing, feeling the weight of his unexpected failure settle on his like leaden ash. This was dumb.

He was fucked.

 

 

-8-

 

He felt it at the breakfast table. An annoying little itch right behind his belly button. Since his stomach was still grumbling over the previous night’s abuse, he put it down to that and didn’t think much. But it grew just a little as he left the house, hobbling on his crutch, some more as his split ways with his sibling whose was the other way, and became a ‘tug’, like a stitch of flesh just there, between his pectorals.

He rubbed at the spot on his belly as he made his slower than usual way to the bus stop, not paying much attention to the way, trusting his feet (one and a half feet) to lead him there. His father’s expression that morning had been stormy, angry, and his mother…hadn’t even looked at him.

He stopped, because he had walked into a pole.

“Ow, what the…?” he almost cursed but trailed off.

This wasn’t the bus stop. He looked around. This wasn’t even close to the way to the bus stop.

Somehow he had made it into an alley, no a weird blank thoroughfare behind an office building. It was quite, absent of life except for the birds that called from trees beside him.

“What…?” he muttered. Then the tug tugged. “Ow!”

“ _Come_.” The disembodied voice shivered up his spine at the same time as the tug became a sharp single into of pain. He cried out and lurched forward, and immediately the pain lessened. He stared wide eyed at the ground.

“ _We said **come**_.” A different voice sounded now, and its effect was far different. Like warm electricity up his spine and over his shoulders, insistent and brooking no argument. “ _Now come_!”

The tug made him lurch once more, and his crutch nearly slid from his aching shoulder.

“Ouch.” He said, surprised that such a mundane sound could come from his mouth. “I’m coming, alright.”

And he hobbled forward, the tug-pain lessened. It turned out to be directional, as it led him around a corner, and onto a tarred rad, which led onto a brick pathway. It looked older, grass and daises growing between the stones, the bracketing foliage a little overgrown but nonetheless quite lush. He looked ahead, saw himself approaching a high wall, its white washed face peeling in places and the faded echo of some painted decoration along its edge. It exuded a feeling of peace and quietude, like something sleeping. He followed the tug until he came to the closed wooden doorway and then stopped.

His shoulder ached from the crutch, and he hitched his school sack higher on his other shoulder. This was a lot further than the bus stop.

A sudden attack of reality hit him and he tried to turn back the way he’d come, when the same, electric voice said “Nope.” And he was hauled bodily and backwards through the door. He didn’t even yelp in surprise, because all his breath had fallen out of his lungs.

After the surrounding blur had stopped and he found himself sitting on a similarly bricked ground, he opened his eyes properly. His crutch lay a ways away, his bag too, the books scattered and some pages bent. He was in a courtyard, he saw, this side of the high wall was not crumbling or old, and resplendent with intricately painted decoration, reminding Otabek of Turkish design. Then he would look at another wall and see something that looked more Greek, or roman, then another which was very clearly in the stylised blocky primaries of Africa. The bricks on which he sat were not overgrown, or old, or chipped, but in crisp reds and browns as if newly baked, the grout between them clean and smooth.  He was just releasing too, that there was a pattern to them…

“Turn around, idiot.” The electric voice sounded, and this time, Otabek’s ears heard it before his brain did. He turned around.

Before him, on a raised crescent dais, were five chairs, with five inhabitants. The one in the centre smile at him.

“Welcome. You have found the five Lords.”

 


	2. 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> We meet the Lords

****

Five chairs. Or maybe thrones? Otabek wasn’t too clued up on proper terminology. They were spaced evenly, each different and each with an occupant. In the centre seat, that looked to be made from some kind of overly shiny alloy, sat an elegant man with silver hair that cascaded down past his shoulders, and the bluest eyes Otabek had ever seen. A slow, languid smile graced his handsome face as he gazed at Otabek.

  
“Well done for finding us,” he said, voice low and warm, the kind of voice that could convince you of anything, even if you knew it was a bad idea. Otabek instinctively felt drawn to him.

  
“You didn’t exactly give him a choice.” The electric voice butt in, annoyed. Otabek’s eyes swung to the left of the silver man, where a boy his age, maybe, lounged with one leg over what Otabek would definitely call a throne. Though the boy was long of limb and body, he was still dwarfed by the huge piece of furniture carved out of a wood and seemingly blackened by fire. Otabek could see where some of the edges and little decoration had been turned to charcoal. That boy in it however, was in such stark contrast, he practically glowed. Yellow gold hair fell carelessly over his shoulder and back, tickling the edge of the armrest, eyes to sharp a green to be real, wearing an outfit that was a collection of leather plates, metal gears and lace. Otabek’s eyes travelled helplessly up the intricate lacing of the knee high leather boots he wore, and felt suddenly that though this was the prettiest boy in his experience, he was also so unmistakably male his libido immediately sat up and paid attention.

  
“Looks like this one should be for Me,” a familiar voice spoke, sounding amused. Immediately Otabek broke out in a slight chill, seeing who spoke. To the right of the silver man, a woman, red hair short and flared around her face, lips like ripened plums, grinning salaciously at him. Her seat was a little different, more like a chaise longue than a chair, and she draped herself over the single armrest, legs folded beneath her, hip jutting in what Otabek knew was a calculated move to show exactly the right amount of cream coloured thigh to make him wonder how much more was hidden underneath the red laced dress she wore.

  
“I dunno, guys, he did use a computer to summon us. Not like, a book or something.” The fourth voice said and Otabek’s gaze snapped over to the character beside her, sitting in what looked like a glorified bean bag chair, with a Gameboy in his hands. He seemed young and old at once, slouched into the beanbag like an overgrown kid, but there were highlights of silver and blue in his hair. As Otabek looked, they seemed to glitter and flash, changing colours, bright as LED lights, smashing the keys of his game with a look of frustrated triumph on his young/old face. The crisp line of his white suit were completely offset by the heavy, bulky construction boots he wore.

  
“That barely counts. Everything is done with computers these days.” The woman pouted.

  
“Which is why I’m better than you are.” The boy/man answered without looking up.   


“Fuck you.”   


“That’s  _ your _ job.”   


“Perhaps we should speak to the sacrifice first.” The silver haired man spoke, effectively overriding further comment. “Vonya led him here, now to find out what he has to offer.”   


“The what now?” Otabek said, the first words from his mouth since arriving.   


The silver haired man sat like a king in his glistening chair, hands delicately perched on the armrests, back straight, legs crossed. “You summoned us. And now we are meeting here, in the hall of Lords.”   


“The what…who are you?”   


“Technology is so informative and yet so ignorant.” The woman said significantly.   


“What?” the boy-man asked but soon went back into his game.   


The golden boy sighed noisily, toying the epaulette of his shoulder brace. “He obviously doesn’t know what he did. You’re gonna have to explain it to him old man.”   


There was a slight twitch in the silver man countenance but he smiled at Otabek. When he stood and stepped off the dais towards him, Otabek took a step backwards.   


“I don’t know…”   


“Sit,” the silver man said, and Otabek found his legs obeying without permission from his head. He also found that a seat had appeared behind him just in time to catch his sorry butt.   


The silver man touched his breast bone with an elegant hand, his immaculately manicured nails perfect and suited his expensively white Polo shirt.   


“Whether or not you realised it, you have summoned and entered into a bargain with, the Five Lords. I,” his blue eyes twinkled. “Am Mammon.”   


“Mammon.” Otabek repeated stupidly, looking up at the elegant man’s face.   


There was a pause in which only the birds sang, until it was shattered with an inelegant snort from the golden boy.   


“He doesn’t know what Mammon means, old man. Speak in small words. He’s clearly not the brightest star in the sky.”   


Otabek leaned to the side so he could narrow a glance at the boy, feeling snapped out of his awe for a moment. Suddenly the guy didn’t seem so pretty. “Excuse me?”   


“You’re not,” the guy shot back, green eyes flashing. As in, actually flashing, like a cat.   


“Don’t pay attention to him. He has attitude problems. Not his fault,” the silver-haired man said. “Mammon is an old-fashioned term I suppose, but I like it best. For your sake though, it is the name for the God of Money, wealth and greedy pursuit.”   


“Mammon,” Otabek repeated again, but this time with more certainty. “I’ve heard of it…”   


Mammon looked pleased. “I am glad. Of all of these lords gathered here, I am the most powerful, as you can imagine why. I have the most-“   


“It’s not time to advertise yourself just yet, Mammon,” the woman spoke up. “Simply introductions.”   


Mammon inclined his head, the flicker of annoyance back but remaining poised. “Of course. And here is Eros, lady of lust, creature of sex, self-indulgence, and pleasure. It was she who called you at first, but you didn’t seem to be responding…”

  
Otabek recalled the cold shiver he’d gotten the night before, and wondered at himself a little. Eros looked stunning, like a meal to a starving man, her curves were round, her skin perfect and creamy, her eyes like a melting pot of wanton lust, inviting and dreamlike. He could imagine himself being very comfortable with those legs around him. And yet, he found himself repelled.

  
“Oh dear, he’s definitely not for Me,” she said with regret. “Such a shame, he’s cute…”

  
“And beside her we have Bill, as he prefers to be called. He is the youngest of us, though no less powerful for it. He embodies mankind’s ever-burgeoning technology, constantly changing and growing, and about as focused as a toddler in a sweet shop.”   
  


“Hmm?” Bill said. “I can hear you, Mammon. Remember you and I are very much tied. You can’t live without me anymore.”   
  


“And you can’t live without me,” Mammon replied, his voice taking on a darker edge then. Bill shifted in his bean bag, but didn’t respond. He glanced at Otabek, giving him a proper look at his eyes. Otabek blanched.   
  


It was all code, white numbers on a black background, whizzing in lines across his eyeball too fast to see.   
  


“And here, you see Vonya, who you were devouring with your eyes earlier,” Mammon said gesturing to the golden boy. Otabek blushed, Vonya rolled his eyes. “Do you know this word?”   
  


Otabek was fidgeting with the crease of his trousers as he forced his brain into gear, then suddenly realised he did know the word. It was in his own mother tongue.    
  


“War?”   
  


Mammon clapped his hands like he’d done a good trick. “Yes! Although he also the embodiment of sports, which are in essence two sides of the same coin anyway, though one side is far tamer.” Mammon moved along to the fifth seat.   
  


“And we have Hubris. He is the oldest of us, and is usually the one people are looking for-“   
  


“I can’t.” Otabek said.   
  


“Hmm?”   
  


Otabek tried again to look at the fifth chair, but his eyes slid away, as if they were determined to save him from the sight there. He could sense there was a presence in that chair, but he couldn’t describe it, or even decide on its colour. The harder he tried the more slippery it became, his gaze would simply not land on that chair.   
  


“I’m sorry…? I can’t seem to look there.” He said, glancing at Mammon, who gave him a curious look then shared it with Vonya, who frowned.   
  


“That’s…interesting.” Mammon said eventually.   
  


Then a voice that sounded as if it came from the dark, curdling, wet things at the bottom of a well said, “ **He is not for me** .”   
  


Otabek gasped for breath, feeling the ice over his throat recede.   
  


“Alright then.” Mammon said thoughtfully, then turned and walked back to his seat, settling into it as if it were the plushest velvet instead of chrome. “So that leaves myself and my associate, Vonya. It is your choice Otabek Altin, only one of us can be your patron.”   
  


Otabek took in the sight of them, five seats each holding a master or mistress of a concept…   
  


And wondered what the big fucking joke was.   
  


“What the  _ fuck _ is this?” he scowled. “Is this a prank? Seriously if this is Chris he needs to get over himself already.”   
  


“Don’t be a fool.” Vonya said lazily.   
  


“I don’t know who the fuck you are!” Otabek shouted.   
  
This time, when the silence fell, even the birds had stopped their chatter. There was nothing, no sound, and Otabek suddenly knew, without a doubt that he was not actually in a bricked courtyard, or in Sacramento or in the reality he knew best. He was not home.

Before him, the other seats faded away until there was only Mammon and Vonya, suddenly larger and more real than anything else. Mammon smiled and got up, sliding fluidly up to Otabek with all the sly intention of a snake.

“I am Mammon, the embodiment of man’s worship of that which he cannot live without: Money.” As Mammon drew closer the world faded and Otabek’s mind filled with images. Himself attending college, driving the car he’d always wanted, the red corvette with the hood down. Playing football because he loved it and never wearing second hand boots ever again. Buying his parent a house and moving them out of the flat, it was as clear as the friction of his mother’s soft hand in his as he led her to the front door, skin worn soft from too many hours of doing housework fin other people's houses. His father’s smiling face, too wide and too silly and feckless.  Paying for his siblings to attend a better school, one where they wouldn’t be crowded into classroom full of too many rowdy children.

“ _ Wouldn’t it be wonderful, Otabek, to tell you mother that she doesn’t have to cook tonight? That you can buy takeout for once? Or even better, hire someone to cook those meals for her? Wouldn’t it be lovely to eat something with meat in it more than once a week? _ ” Mammon crooned in his ear, gesturing like a ringmaster to the golden vision that filled the world. “ _ There is no limit to what I can offer you. Money is just a word, a concept. You can have just enough, or you can have everything you want. And everything they want. Imagine a world where you parents don’t have to work themselves to the bone until they die standing up at the shop counter, or with her hand around a toilet brush _ .”

Otabek could see it, taste the idea, made so much more lucid and solid with mammon’s foretelling.

“ _ Money solves everything _ .” Mammon whispered in his ear.

_ “Hold. _ ”

Mammon’s’ slithery tones and bright images faded with the new voice and Vonya took centre stage in Otabek vision now. He was tall, taller than Otabek, and slim, the bespoke leather shoulders he wore making him seem wider, while the strapped corset around his waist slimmed him down. Where mammon was cool clean and expensive, Vonya was raw, powerful and slightly animalistic.

“ _ My turn, Old man _ .” He said and Otabek felt Mammon’s presence slide away until there was only Vonya. The air became warm, a wind picked up and Otabek heard the distant sounds of voices raised crying, shouting, singing, chanting.

“ _ You want success. I see you, Otabek Altin, I heard you when you called for us. You wish to push your body into the game. _ ”

It was true, and as is Vonya’s words pulled it from him, Otabek was suddenly in the midst of a game, his passion burning hot in his throat, muscles bunching and seating as he danced the ball from one foot to the other. He was good, he knew it so perfectly in moments like these, the breathless pause before his boot connected and when he knew without a doubt that the goalie would miss it, and the ball would go exactly where it was supposed to. The crowd screamed his victory, his internal elation make external with their noise, their fervour and his chest was barely big enough for the perfection of the moment. The stink of mud and torn grass, the heaviness in his shoulders were all part of the joy of the game.

“ _ Your first love _ .” Vonya’s voice echoed in his ear, satisfied, and knowing.unlike Mammon, Vonya’s voice was curling with warmth, and the kind of electricity that caused sparks to fly up from the carpet and made hearts beat. It was hot wind on a hot day but you leaned into anyway because it smelled like potential, and tasted like hot tin, as if breathing it in might made you something else, something more. Vonya’s voice crawled over his back and settled on his shoulders, prickling and enticing.

“Yes,” Otabek said.

“ _ I am the Lord of this Love _ .  _ The joy of the push and pain, the pressure and anxiety. There is nothing in the world that compares to it, hmm? _ ” Vonya went on. “ _ Nothing like the smell of dirt and sweat, nothing like the win. _ ”

“Yes,” Otabek agreed, fishing his voice from his chest. “In that second… it’s like, every victory at once. Every victory that there ever was.” the crowd screamed their joy, his glory, rising him higher, making him into a god. The heard there cheers in the singing of his tired muscles, the stamping of their collective feet like a violent heartbeat. The huge drumming that was the heartbeat of the world rose up through the floor, the stands and into his throat.

Suddenly Vonya’s presence was all around him, pushing and pressuring. “ _ And what about the loss? There is that too, there is no guarantee of victory. That is  _ **_war_ ** _ , that is t _ **_he game_ ** .”

“Yes that is also the game. There is joy in a war well fought, a victory well won, no matter which side takes it. There is joy in the loss too, if you play well.”

“ _ This is true _ ,” Vonya said.

Otabek became aware that there were now two presences. One, cold but plentiful and perfect in its conceit; Mammon. And the other, hot, frenzied and untidy: Vonya. There was the sense of scales, of balance, as he watched both Lords looking at him, waiting, green and blue pin points of expectation.

Otabek’s eyes drew towards Vonya, who nodded, triumphant and smirking.

“He is _ mine _ .”


	3. 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Vonya makes good on his bargain.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Again, thank you to my lovely betas who somehow still want to put up with my weird messy nonsense.

“What just happened?”

It was early evening, growing dark. As the sun vanished it took its heat with it. This late in the year, the chill took every chance to creep in. Otabek however, didn’t notice it too much, as he was still reeling from his out of the ordinary experience.

“What just happened?” he said again, thinking that saying it might increase his chances of getting an answer.

But none came. The day had somehow vanished, and so had his normalcy. He’d somehow found himself back on the road, a familiar sight that would lead him home. He lifted the crutch about to swing it forward when a voice cut through his haze.

“You don’t need that anymore.” Said Vonya, all static electricity, and kinetic energy. Otabek watched as the Lord came up beside him, his face scrutinizing the piece of wood Otabek held. The toe of his tanned leather boot pushed at the rubber foot, knocking against the cheap wood. “Well, you won’t, if you seal the deal with me.”

Otabek couldn’t help it, he stared. Vonya, the Lord of sport or war was a stunning creature. Even if Otabek had been totally straight, he would have stared. The same way people stared at the Pieta, or a perfectly executed pirouette, or the painful perfection of a tigers stripes.

“Vonya.”

“Just so.” Vonya agreed, turning his green eyes up to meet Otabek’s gaze and Otabek flushed, realizing he’d been caught.  Instead of looking away though, he couldn’t, and continued staring like he was watching a slow-motion accident. Except he was the accident.

A dirty, knowing little grin grew on Vonya’s face, and he tilted his head to one side. He was only a few fingers taller than Otabek but he still felt crowded as Vonya began to step closer. Instinctively Otabek stepped back, trying to maintain a survivalist’s distance between him and the Lord, but the eyes held him, glowing now while the whites of his eyes turned to the color of blood. The grin became sharper, the teeth became longer and suddenly Otabek understood why something terrible could also be beautiful.

“So, Otabek Altin, star striker for the gold tiger or Sacramento High, what do you have to offer me?” Vonya purred.

Otabek’s heart thudded though he didn’t know why, and it kicked up a notch when he backed up against the wall. Vonya didn’t stop though, and Otabek found himself bracketed by two leather-clad arms bristling with heavy, glinting rings. Vonya flaxen hair had slithered down over his shoulder as he bent over Otabek, still smiling like a tiger ready to snack.

“What do you want?” Otabek managed eventually.

Vonya’s head canted like a dog, musing. “Hmm, how about your virginity?”

Otabek’s throat closed and the night made its slow creep into the sky, silent but watchful. Then Otabek burst.

“What!” he exclaimed. “Are you serious? I don’t even know what the fuck you are.”

“I think I’m the fuck you want.” Vonya replied easily, laughing.

Anyone else might have swung a fist, or at least pushed the other man away then, but the Altin house raised their children right and respectful. So Otabek set his expression and said in a contained voice.

“Move.”

Vonya laughed and pushed himself away, his long hair catching whatever light there was, angelic and demonic at once. “Relax, jock boy. I have better things to do than deflower virgins. But the fact remains, we need to seal our deal, and for that, we need to discuss terms.”

“Otabek glanced at the sky, seeing the first star and hugging his thin jacket tighter around himself. “I don’t even understand what’s happening, could you be a little less of an asshole?”

“No. and I think you know what’s happening, you’re just being too human to accept it. You met the Five Lords, you entered into a pact with them, and now, in order to secure you currently shaky future, you need to make a deal with me. Simple.”

“What can you do?” Otabek shot back, feeling petulant and embarrassed.

Again the toe at the crutch, making its  _ toc toc  _ noise. “For a start, I can fix that.”

“How?”

“You can tell yourself its magic, or miracle, or whatever story makes sense in your head. The point is, if you wanna go to that away game, I’m your only way there.” Vonya said, pushing his fingerless-gloved hands into the front pockets of his jacket which hung open and displaying the loose shirt and corset. “As well as the rest of your life. You’re right when you think that this is your shot. It is. You miss it, it’s gone. No second try for you.”

Otabek frowned at the man, whose smirk had melted away and was now staring at him with boredom and just a little bit of hunger.  “And what’s my part in this?”

“Good question. For now, all you have to do is play, and win, which you will if I’m in your corner.”

“I don’t cheat,” Otabek said firmly.

“I beg your pardon?” Vonya shot back. “You called upon and made a pact with the Five Lords and you don’t think you cheat?”

“I didn’t know what I was doing!”

“Yes, you were drunk. We know. It doesn’t change things.”

“I just…” Otabek scrabbled for words, something to make sense, “I just want to play.”

“So” Vonya shrugged. “Play. That’s what I can do for you. And for me, the act of you playing and winning will cover your tab for now.”

“But I’ll only win if you’re…doing whatever you do.”

Vonya rolled his eyes, the expression of annoyance exquisite on his face. “You won’t even play if you can’t walk. And even if you weren’t injured, you might win on your own. But with me, yes, you will win. Because that what you asked for didn’t you? To beat the cobras? And for Chris to suddenly develop Backne?”

“Oh my god.”

“That’s me.”

Otabek rubbed at his face. “I was just desperate and drunk and stupid. I didn’t think the thing would actually work. I used fucking crayon!”

Vonya was silent but the green glow of his stare pierced Otabek back against the wall. The scent of hot, smoky wind blew past Otabek nose, ruffled the ends of his dark hair. Voices raised in terror or proclamation or both echoed in the distance and Otabek once more felt as if he was there on the alley but also somewhere else too. Vonya came closer, close enough for Otabek to smell his breath, which Otabek could only describe as how he imagined lightning would smell.

“Look at me Otabek Alti,.” Vonya said, his voice no longer mundane or human, and Otabek did. “Do you want to win?”

Otabek heard the crowds, felt the exultation, and smelled lightening.

“Ye,s” he sighed.

“Then seal the deal.” Vonya replied and closed the distance with a kiss.

There were breakfast cerals that boasted hours of bubbling energy, but everyone knew that was a lie. However if Otabek started each day with one of Vonya’s kisses, it would be like eating the electricity from the wall sockets, and he would be a live wire for the rest of the day. Otabek leaned into the kiss, opening himself for it without a second thought ager for more. It was hot, and wet, and human. But it was also something else, something timeless and forbidding. His hand travelled upwards, sliding over the back of Vonya’s neck instinctively, not to pull, but to feel.

There was glory in the exchange, the promise of something more, something larger and dream worthy and Otabek swallowed it whole.

Vonya pulled away from him, leaving Otabek pitched forward, still dazed. He chuckled.

“You may be a virgin, but that was definitely not your first kiss.”

Otabek blinked and blushed again. “I’m... how did you… why did you kiss me?”

Vonya shrugged, hands back in pockets. “Well because you’ve been eyeing me since you walked in for one. And secondly, the way to seal the pact is with blood, saliva or semen. I’m not a fan of blood, and you look like you give terrible head, so I went with a kiss.”

Somewhere in his the current squirreling mess of his mind, Otabek knew that there was more than one way to exchange damn saliva but he was still reeling from the kiss, and now also considered with the half-chub he was sporting in his pants.

“So what now.” he went on, looking away and cursing himself internally. But Vonya was already walking away. As he passed Otabek, his foot shot out and kicked the crutch out from under Otabek’s shoulder. Otabek lurched for a moment, then his eyes went wide.

“You don’t need that anymore.” Vonya called over his shoulder.

Otabek stared at his foot, suddenly absent of pain. He gave the ankle an experimental roll and found it perfect. Painless. If he took off the bandage, he knew the swelling and bruising would already be gone.

When he looked up, he was alone.

 

-8-

 

He didn’t see Vonya again.

Until Saturday, when he walked out of the changing rooms. His blood was high already, and the day was perfect; slightly overcast without a real chance of rain, although even if it did he wouldn’t mind. Mud just added an extra challenge to the play.He took a deep, chest expanding breath, loosening his shoulders with a hard stretch, taking in the field and grounds without really seeing. He’d never played at Hughes stadium before, and it was the biggest he’d been to, but it was just a stadium, just a building.

A field was always the same size. The place where two sides battled was always the same.

The thought led him to Vonya.

He’d managed to fake his injury for a few more days, because there was no stretch of the imagination that would allow him to get away with a miracle. He didn’t feel like spreading the ‘freak out’ amongst his family, so he diligently wore the bandage, slowly graduating away from the crutch. Coach had been astounded when the day before, Otabek had revelled his foot, saying he was just fine could he please play. The disbelief was plain, but it was far outweighed but his complete joy of the fact that his star player was back in play. It was enough to shove aside any weird questions like; “how could you have healed a sprain in less than a week?”

It had also been worth it, to see the look of shame and shock on Chris’s face.

Apart from the miracle of his ankle, he didn’t feel any different. He walked the same, played the same, and jogged the same. The picture of relieved smiles on his parent’s faces gave him buoyancy, but he certainly didn’t feel like he’d just entered into some sort of esoteric deal with a deity. Was he supposed to be tingling or something? Faster, smarter?

Otabek ran plays through his head as he walked out, recalling player stats of the cobras, thinking of who he would be more likely to bump up against during the game, when all the preoccupation leaked from his mind like someone had punctured it.

Vonya didn’t even wave, he simply flicked a glance his way, and back at the field in front of him. Although today he looked far more…normal than before, he still stood out like how a pearl  stands out in a bowl of rocks. His hair was still loose and fell whichever way gravity happened to take it, but today he wore a tiger print hoodie and tight black jeans that hugged his long, slender legs right down to the ankle, tipping them off with black and white all-stars.

“You’re staring,” Vonya said in a bored tone, and Otabek snapped his mouth shut.

“What are you doing here?” he said in an undertone, looking around him as if they were meeting somewhere private instead of in the open for all to see.

“I’m here to make good on my part of the deal. Hello?” Vonya replied, as if Otabek were an idiot. “I’ve dealt with jocks before, but you’re a little slower than most aren’t you?”

Vonya sat on the stadium seat the way he had on his throne, and somehow contrived to make it look like the seat had been put there just for him, legs crossed, elbows propped on the back. “No, I just…thought I wouldn’t see you again…”

“Why, you miss me? Want another kiss?” that shit-eating grin was back and Otabek blinked his shock.

“Could you not come onto me right now? I’m about to play.”

Vonya snockered. “I know. And honestly, I wouldn’t mess with you if it weren’t so easy. Here.”

Vonya held out his hand palm facing Otabek face and fingers splayed. Otabek looked at the hand like it was an alien.

“Touch me, idiot.” Vonya said impatiently.

Otabek looked around again, and as he knew there would be, there were eyes on them. Just a few spectators, some parents, and even couple of the cheerleaders from the fired had turned to see.

“I can do this all day, but I would prefer not to.”

Otabek gave in, and held his hand out, letting his fingers slide between Vonya’s just to the first knuckle. The effect was instant. There was a rush of electricity, so powerful Otabek though his hair might be standing on end. He felt warm all over, full of pent up energy and the sudden absolutely knowing that today was his day, today he would be a fucking hero.

Vonya took his hand back, face expressionless, already bored. “Your game is starting.”

Otabek smiled, wide and triumphant at the Lord. “Fuck yeah.” And bounded away to join his team again.

 

-8-

 

Bodies were crashing into him, screaming his name. Even though Otabek was laughing, shouting wordless noise, but he couldn’t hear it over the victory. The world was golden, illuminated and effervescent.

They had won, Otabek had played better than ever before. He’d never felt so vital.

As the team half carried half crowded him for a lap around the field, he couldn’t help but just look, just in case Vonya was watching from his place in the stands. He’d been there the whole game, though Otabek had stopped keeping track long before the second half. As he turned his head to see over the heads of his teams, his eye instead caught sight of his mother’s face, which was contorted in the terrible rictus that comes when someone is both crying and laughing at once. She must have left her job early to come see this game. He was jerked back for a moment then smiled at her, beaming.

_ Everything will be fine, mama _ , he thought at her _. I will be your perfect son. I will save us _ .

His and the teams elation was a wave that lasted them all the way into the changing rooms, where there were back slaps and laughter, the careless foolishness that comes after  a win. Towels were twisted into whips, chest were butted against each other, and Otabek hair was ruffled over and over. It wasn’t just a win for him, but a huge feather in the Golden Tiger’s cap. And he had brought it, with six goals to one. The win was so irrefutable, the celebration and acclaim would last well into the night and weekend, and even the following week.

“Altin!” he heard coach call and made his way over to where he stood with another man, older and his belly not quite hidden but a heavy jacket. Otabek didn’t need a sign to know this guy was a scout.

This os Soren from Sacramaneto State College. He saw you play tonight-“

“And was impressed,” Soren immediately said and Otabek raised his eyebrows in surprise. He’d been spoken to in Russian. Soren saw his surprise and winked. “We’re both from the Czech replubic. Thought it would be easier to talk casually this way.”

“You can use my office.” Coach said, smiling benevolently and pushing Otabek towards the door. Soren followed, tipping his cap to coach as they passed. Otabek led the way, since he knew where the office was but Soren wasted no time, and carried on talking as they traipsed the corridor.

“This won’t be the only offer you get, Altin, but think you should consider it more seriously than the others since-“

“We’re all from the  _ motherland _ , yes?”

Otabek hadn’t spoken, but his jaw dropped open as he turned his head, and Vonya was there, smiling at the scout, still wearing his ‘I’m an emo teen’ clothes.

Soren frowned, clearly surprised by his sudden appearance but skated over it quickly. “Excuse me, this is a private conversation.”

Vonya dipped his head briefly. “So it is, but one I should be part of nonetheless.” He held his hand out, and to Otabek’s dismay, he saw fingerless gloves again. “I am Yuri Plisetsky, Mr Altin’s agent.”

Otabek thought his eyes might fall from his head.

“You’re what?” Soren said, then turned to Otabek. “Your coach told me you were unrepresented.”

“I…” Otabek said eyes darting between him and Vonya, now Yuri.

“He was. But his parents had such faith in his performance today, they hired me recently. This morning in fact. Right, Otabek?”

Vonya turned Yuri gave him such an innocent look, Otabek was stunned. Then he shook himself out of the moment and nodded, rubbing his face. “Uh yeah. This is…Yuri Plisky-“

“Plisetsky.” Yuri corrected without missing a beat.

“And he’s my agent…” Otabek trailed off riding the wave of confusion to its finish. Yuri took his cue.

“Soren Stalwart wasn’t it?” Yuri said, switching back to Russian. “Well, I know you’re not Russian, that’s for sure. Let’s not start a conversation based on lies by omission. And you’re right, you won’t be the only scout out for a piece of Altin.  So, how about you give me your card? And in a week’s time, after you have put in an email exactly what you’re willing to put on offer for Mr Altin, you might receive a call from us. Here’s mine.”

Yuri was suddenly holding out a business card. It was red, with a blackened edge and said simply “Yuri Plisetsky, Sports agent.” Soren took it with narrowed eyes, annoyed that his plans had been scuppered.

“I am Russian and you’re not old enough to be an agent. What are you, 18?” he said, not taking the card.

“I am twenty, and you are from Saskatchewan, though you spent several years in Moscow and picked up the dialect. You have a gift for languages, well done. But I would really prefer not to negotiate technicalities. Let’s not fight so early on in a potentially beneficial relationship, hmm?”

Soren glared at him for a moment longer but snatched the card. “I’m going to look you up, Mr ‘I’m twenty’.”  “Mr Altin,” he turned to Otabek his shoulder blocking Yuri from the conversation. “I just want to remind you that even the best agents have to listen to their sportsmen in the end. And I would reconsider…your choice in agent. You want someone experienced and knows what they’re doing.”

Otabek slid a glance to Yuri and back to Soren. “Um, I’m pretty sure Yuri has more experience that most people do when it comes to…sports.”

“I also know he’s a fucking brilliant player, and everyone is going to want him. His stats alone made you come out to see him, and now that you’ve seen it with your own eyes you’re hungry for him. I don’t blame you. But isn’t it unethical to cut other scouts off at the knees just because you know what language he speaks at home?” 

Soren was visibly taken aback by Vonya/Yuri’s blunt tone and passive aggressive attitude, clearly used to dealing with far more sociable, and perhaps malleable, class of people.

SMirking, Vonya said, “Come on, Altin.”

Yuri jerked his head and turned, waiting. Otabek sighed. He took Soren’s hand and shook it, trying to communicate his apology with his eyes.

“I’ll…talk to you soon,” he said lamely.

“Maybe.” Yuri added. Otabek stifled a sigh and followed his ‘agent.’


	4. 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Another encounter!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The idea is to upload a chapter every monday, maybe twice a week if I have time :D

“ _ Zdravstvuyte _ .”    


“ _ Jesus _ F.  _ Christ _ !”   


The sheaf of papers Otabek had been holding crumpled in his abruptly clenched fists, before falling to the floor because said hands were now clamped over his mouth. Vonya smirked and Otabek glared while waiting to hear if his mother had heard him take the Lord’s name in vain and come to scold him for it. When about 67 seconds had passed, and there were no angry footsteps making the stairs creak outside his door, Otabek sighed out in relief. Then he glared some more.   


“ _ You _ .”   


“Me, not Christ,” Vonya replied chuckling. He was perched on Otabek’s small but serviceable desk which sat opposite his bed, legs propped up on the chair back. This time, he wore something that seemed at odds with his demeanour: plain woven pants, earth coloured loose shirt that draped oddly over his lanky frame and slightly too large. For once, 

Vonya’s clothes were dusty and drab, though his vibrant personality still shone through, bright and vaguely aggressive.    


“Why can’t you just contact me like a normal person?” Otabek complained then realised what a stupid thing that was to say. Vonya’s eyes flashed.   


“Because I’m not a  _ person _ . Or normal. And your reactions really are very entertaining. A great pick-me-up.” He hopped off the desk and threw himself on the end of Otabek’s bed, while Otabek just managed to shuffle his legs out of the way before they were sat on. Up close, he could see the dirt in Vonya’s usually immaculate hair, and the frayed edges to the shirt he wore, the faded chequered pattern of the black and white scarf around his neck. The bed dipped as Vonya bent to pick up a fallen page and quirked an eyebrow.   


“California? Thought you would have wanted to stay closer to home.” He commented, eyes glancing over the rest of the offers his mother had printed out for him.   


“…..it’s a good offer.” Otabek replied eventually. “I’ve been holding off on making a decision though.”   


“Well, you’ve got time.” Vonya shrugged.   


Otabek opened his mouth, closed it again, and then restarted. “I meant I’ve been waiting for you.”   


Vonya gave him a quizzical look. “Why?”   


“Um, aren’t you my supposed agent?”   


Vonya gave him a ‘poor idiot’ look. “Mr Altin, me stepping in for you with Soren the Earnest Comrade was just an extra. Our deal was up the moment you won the game.”   


There was a pause as Otabek processed this.

“What?”

“You say that a lot. I did my part - your leg got better, you won’t the away game and your ex now has backne. Did you notice?”   


Otabek had, in fact, caught sight of Chris’s skin in the showers, and flinched. It was…pretty bad. But he’d also snickered. At Vonya’s expectant expression, he half-grinned.   


“Yeah I saw. Not sure if I should say thanks though.”   


Vonya shrugged as if it didn’t matter. “Either way, our deal is up. This is  _ sayonara _ , pretty little jock virgin.”   


Otabek frowned, “Hold on. I didn’t have to give you anything, except the…”   


“Kiss? That was just me needling you. I mean, I still need the exchange of fluids to seal a pact, but honestly your blushy face is very ‘ _ oh no senpai, not there! _ ’ How you’re still a virgin is kind of a miracle in itself.”   


Otabek huffed and pushed past the teasing. “I meant, we didn’t exchange anything. You gave me the win right? What did I give you?”   


“Nothing you you’ll miss.”   


“Oh my…” Otabek felt cold trickle into his belly, “What did you take?”   


Vonya rolled his eyes, and folded his arms. “It’s very ethereal and voodoo like, you sure you wanna hear it? Good Christian boy like you?”   


Otabek sighed out in frustration. “I asked didn’t I? I want to know if I’ve made a deal with the devil and if I’m going to regret this in my future.”   


“Nah, he doesn’t do those anymore.” Vonya replied, resettling himself on the bed, knees up and hands resting lightly on them. There was a strange moment of non-vertigo for 

Otabek Altin just then, looking at the image of Vonya sitting on his bed in just that way, looking so unexpectedly young and human, that became branded into his brain. A boy, just like he was. Then the moment passed, and he would only recall it much later.   


“The payment I took from you was worship.”   


All of his mother’s carefully nurtured alarms bells went off in Otabek’s head, of idolatry and false gods, but he tried to ignore it as Vonya went on.   


“The Five Lords are not quite like deities, they are more like personifications of a concept. The ideas of war, money, hubris, technology and sex are things that humans worship, adore, need. So in a way we are like gods. And what do gods want more than anything?”   


Otabek didn’t have to try very hard to figure it out. “Worship. Love.”    


Vonya finger-gunned him. “Good boy. In days now gone and historical, worship had a lot more forms than today. Animal sacrifice, food, blood, virgins.” Here Vonya leered. 

“And all of it fuelled us. But more than anything else, true worship is the commitment to the idea which we embody. So, Bill is fuelled every time you crave your smart phone, do your online banking, watch internet porn. So is Eros, when you jerk off thinking about a hot teacher, when two lovers meet at a motel, when orgies happen, even some guys lonely lovelorn fantasies… this is all food to us. We crave it, we need it and it gives us power in this world.”   


“So my win…”   


“Was your payment. Yes, I encouraged it, but the skill is yours. You really are pretty good you know. And the rest... Well, you know exactly what I mean, don’t you? The roar of the crowd, the way that the moment picks you up and carries you, where you are a champion down to your very DNA… for you it’s momentary, for me it’s sustenance. And your part of the deal.”   


Otabek absorbed the information, and it made good sense, as much as it could to a person who thought the word ‘esoteric’ was a race of people. He nodded and Vonya appeared to suddenly switch off internally. His interest in Otabek didn’t so wane as vanish. Otabek watched wordlessly as Vonya lithely unfolded his long body and flipped himself off the bed, causing very little movement in spite of that.   


“And so you see, your deal is up. Thanks for playing.”   


“Wait, I thought…”   


“Hmm?”   


Otabek shook his head. “I thought this was…a lot longer, to be honest. I thought I had signed my life away.”   


Vonya canted his head to one side, hands sliding into the frayed pockets of his pants, the hems brushing the tops of his bare feet. “Do you want to?”   


“What?”   


Vonya frowned, his slim-lined eyebrows creasing. “Ok, the whole dumb jock routine was amusing at first, but it’s really lost its appeal. You really aren’t very smart, and I really am quite bored with ‘what what what?’”   


Otabek drew in a breath, as much to calm himself as to line up the words that had been fighting to be said since their first meeting.   


“I’m not dumb, or stupid.  My grades are excellent and most of my classes are advanced level. I’m a good student and I read, and I know what dumb looks like, believe me. So stop calling me that.” He pointed finger at Vonya, whose eyebrows had smoothed out now, though his face remained bland. “If I keep saying ‘what’ it’s because when it comes to you, or this whole Five Lords business, all I have is questions. But you are more interested in throwing me off-balance than being helpful or informative.”   


“Questions,” Vonya said flatly.   


“Yeah. Like, why do you dress differently every time I see you? Why do you keep popping up out of nowhere, although I probably know the answer to that one. And why ‘Yuri’?   Are you really a sports agent, is that like a side job or something? What are the-“   


Vonya held up a hand. “Stop.”   


Otabek did, mostly because the authority in Vonya’s tone had no place for a comeback. But Otabek frowned nonetheless, and folded his arms across his chest, trying very hard to avoid a pout.   


“Anyway, you’re also an asshole.   


In an instant Vonya’s face was close enough to share breath, green eyes glinting like stolen jewels.    


“I am not an asshole. I am myself. I am the game. I am the victory and the fall, I am the gamble, the hope and the dismay. And I am the reality of defeat, I am the void that is left. I was you when you scored the final goal, when the crowds cheered your name, when your teammates tried to hug themselves into you in their fervour. And I was the losing captain, I was the coach whose heart fell, I was the losing team staring at their muddied boots in the locker room. I am all this. I am what I am.”   


Otabek breathed in heat and his eyes grew half lidded. He had begun to smell something else too, something burnt but not unpleasant, faint and just out of reach.   


“Perhaps you should recall this when thinking about the clothes I wear,” Vonya said, and broke the spell by pushing a finger into Otabek forehead and flicking. “I am not just here. I am an embodiment, reality is bendable for such as me.”    


Then Vonya was away again his back turned to Otabek and peering at the posters on his walls; soccer stars, some photos, some family pictures, a few crayon scrawled artworks from his siblings.   


“And why the name Yuri?” Otabek eventually asked, quiet. He was curious, why bother using a name that came so specifically from his own dialect?   


“Do you want a new deal?” Vonya countered and once again, Otabek felt the situation shift unsteadily.   


“Wha- I mean, a new deal?”   


Vonya turned, green eyes still alight. “Well, this deal was small fry. One high school game does not a career make. We could make a new one. I could carry you further, through college and into the after… your name could go down in history.”   


Otabek tensed his shoulders without realising. “….I still feel as if I cheated.”   


Vonya shook his head. “As much as it might suit you to think that way, on that moral high ground and all, that’s not really how it works. I can’t make you a better player than  you are. For example, if your backne ex-boyfriend had tried this deal, I might have made him a better for a game or two, but his skill can only go so far. I enhance what’s there, I magnify potential energy. I don’t make falsehoods.”   


Vonya stepped close and poked Otabek in the head again. “You are talented. You can go far, if you want to. You could struggle at it on your own, or you could have me.”   


Otabek reached up a hand and pushed the finger away, flinching at the slight static spark that occurred at the contact. He glanced at Vonya for explanation, but the Lord simply smirked.   


“So…you would somehow enhance my career?”   


“I would make it a guarantee that you succeed.”   


“All I want to do is play.”   


“And be a success.”   


Otabek frowned again. “I’m not like that. I just like playing and I happen to be good at it. Being successful means…”   


It meant college that his parents didn’t have to pay for, it meant one less mouth to feed and burden on the family, and it meant one day earning money in a career that could be fun as well as rewarding.   


“I know what it means to you. That’s the reason you couldn’t see Hubris.” Vonya mused. “So, what do you say?”   


Vonya held out his hand and Otabek reached for it slowly.   


“Again, getting that deal with the devil feeling.” He said, as he clasped the hand, feeling it dry and warm, this time half expecting the shock when it came and they closed their palms around it.   


“And again, not the devil.” Vonya said, yanking their clasped hands towards his chest. This time Vonya’s mouth slammed into his, greedy and hard, and Otabek nearly fell away from it. But the heat caught him in its currents, and his lifted his face easily, thoughtlessly, taking his fill and letting Vonya take his own.   


Again, it was Vonya who leaned away first.    


“Still good.” He smirked, and swiping the wetness from his bottom lip. “Not bad for a virgin. And by the way, make sure to wear sleeves tomorrow, your mom isn’t going to like your new tattoo.”   


“My what now?”   


After a few seconds of frantic searching, he found it, on the inside of his left forearm, about as big as a bottle cap but clear. A laurel wreath, its two branches cured around a green ring.   


“You…”

Naturally, Vonya had gone, leaving no trace he was ever there.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I really enjoy thinking about the lore for this story, as you can see. Ask questions If you have em, here or on my Tumblr.   
> Storylover drew the Mark I think....
> 
> *whispers* I really like comments.....


	5. 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> An extra piece this week!  
> This takes place in the same time/moment, straight after Otabek receives the mark, so I'm posting it now. Next chapter will be a new scene.

He rubbed at the emblem with his thumb, gently at first then hard, adding saliva just in case it was a terrible joke that might rub off. But it wasn’t and it didn’t. He knew without needing to confirm that it was permanent, as much a part of his skin as the dark mole in the soft underside of his elbow. It would pass as a tattoo, but it looked far more seamless than that, and as Otabek would realise eventually, its edges would not grow blurry and discoloured with time. He had been marked.

“You really are an asshole.” he muttered at the mark and rubbed his face. His parents really would be vocal about him getting tattoo, even though  _ he hadn’t actually gotten a fucking tattoo. _

After a brief and nearly pointless tidying of papers around his room, he flopped back onto the bed, staring once more at dust coated model airplanes, turning gently in the wake of his teenage melodrama. He blew upwards until all 6 planes were moving slowly, caught in their precarious balance, relic of childhood that seemed very far away just then.

Vonya was a jerk, to the core. Otabek had known enough in his life to recognise it, but now he also considered that what Vonya  _ was _ , ultimately, was something very far beyond his understanding. He wanted to understand though, so he bent his mind to it, like idly fingering the threads of his favourite frayed edge jumper. He’d often thought, in the privacy of his mind, that god and religion were ideas that seemed to have gotten a little too over-inflated. He would never  _ ever _ say that kind of thing around his mother’s ears though. But the idea of a single, all consuming, omniscient entity that could raze cities and flood the world with one eye, while making sure he knew exactly when you were jerking off in the bathroom with the other, was a bit…silly. It felt more like there were a lot of people, with a lot of different beliefs, trying to cram them all into one space and call it ‘God’. A god who took a tenth of the very little his parents earned every Sunday…seemed at odds with a god who made fluffy bunnies and petted the heads of the rich and powerful.

So, he nodded when his mother regurgitated her sunday preaching, recognising that the comfort it brought her was worth more than having an argument about it. She needed to believe, and she needed to believe that everyone else believed. 

So Vonya’s description of himself was at once unrealistically ‘voodoo-like’ and perfectly obvious to Otabek. Gods were an embodiment of belief. That belief sustained the Lords. He didn’t need much convincing on that part; he had been washed away in the pure triumphant, glowing glory of a victory, he’d stamped his feet and screamed his voice dry in the stands before, he’d been part of the collective worship before.

Otabek blinked. He’d called it worship, and the word clicked into place perfectly. That was it wasn’t it? Hmm.

Though, if he had been told his explanation of what the Five Lords were before seeing them, he would have envisioned something a lot less…corporeal.  Something, foggy maybe. Something that looked like Vonya felt…dry heat that burned your lungs and warmed your bones, the almost painful swelling of potential energy, the moment just before the fall, the electricity generated from the moment dragging on and on until the exhilaration of split second decision… passion, hunger, lust for glory…

Otabek stopped the train of thought when he realised that one) that was exactly what Vonya looked like and two) he was unexpectedly turned on and that made him uncomfortable. He could just imagine Vonya there, laughing at him and his bizarre train of thought,  and he pulled his legs up to hide his half erection.

_ I need to stop being so embarrassed _ . he thought to himself.  _ He just does it for the fun anyway _ .

Did Vonya ever really have fun? Could War be fun? Even as he thought it, Otabek knew the answer. Why would humans always go to war if they didn’t yearn for it in some way? But it wasn’t  _ fun _ . Sport was fun, you could play and kick a ball around for fun, the joy from the skill more than enough. But then, wasn’t sport a bit like playing at war? Tournaments, leagues, giants of the soccer world facing off against one another…wasn’t that like war? Otabek glanced at one of his posters, Arsenal against Liverpool from 2009. The two teams stood in rows, facing each other, their faces serious and dark, a bolt of lightning striking through the sky in the background. Flashy script below proclaimed their impending match, the wording ominous and aggressive.

Humans always found some way to wage war, didn’t they? He understood how Vonya was the Lord of War and the Lord of Sport and that they weren’t different at all.

_ ‘Perhaps you should recall this when thinking about the clothes I wear _ .’

What did that mean? Well, there was always a war happening somewhere, wasn’t there? And Vonya always smelled like heat, melting steel and something else that was bitter and addictive…if one was the embodiment of an idea, was he sort of summoned into being wherever that idea flared? Was he in every gang war, every children’s game of soldiers, and every place where one team was pitted against another? Was he in Afghanistan? And Syria?

Otabek shivered, thinking of the kind of being that had to become that, every day. Every gunshot, every child crying, every suicide bomber.

“For the love of Fuck, please stop.”

Otabek shot up eyes wide, Vonya was back, this time dressed in torn and faded jeans, with a heavy gunmetal grey jacket over his shoulders. His hair was tied back and Otabek could see a tattoo climbing up the side of his neck.

“Could you please stop? I’m not flattered.” Vonya reiterated, his irritation clear, shifting a toothpick from one side of his mouth the other.

“Stop what? I wasn’t doing anything.”

Vonya levelled an unimpressed look at him. “Let me explain, little jock that could. We made a deal, a much more solid deal than before. Think of it as upgrading from seeing your crush walk past you in the school halls, to getting their number. So now, if you’re thinking of me, I can hear it. And just now you were thinking of me awful hard. Like, megaphone-in-my-ear hard. I have work to do, so stop, it’s fucking annoying.”

Otabek swung his legs off the bed and stood. “I wasn’t calling you…trust me it’s not on purpose.” he retorted. “Your company so far hasn’t been exactly pleasant.”

“And you’re a peach yourself.” Vonya said. “If you gotta beat off, can you think of someone else please?”

Otabek’s eyes bulged. “I was not jerking off.”

“Oh really? What else could you have been doing that you were thinking so hard about me that I had to leave New York in the middle of church?”

“Church?”

Vonya’s expression was annoyed, but not dangerous, so Otabek pressed on. “Do you mean like, a war, or something like it?”

“Yeah, something like that.” Vonya replied, clearly unwilling to elaborate. “Anyway, now you know, so chill out. Call only if you need me.”

“Call who? Vonya or Yuri?”

Otabek wasn’t sure where the words came from, or what made his brain decide they were a good choice, but he snapped his mouth closed immediately after they’d escaped.

“Excuse me?” Vonya’s tone was the quiet step of a predator in the dark.

“Sorry sorry sorry  _ sorry _ !”

Otabek was backed against the wall, his poster crumpling behind his back, Vonya’s hand curled around his neck, not choking, but unyielding nonetheless.

“Don’t you forget what I am. I am  _ not _ human. I am  _ not _ like you. And while I may deign to speak with you, it does not make us equals. Do you understand?”

Vonya’s voice was the cold wind that swept across the moors, gliding through the fingers of dead mean, cooling puddles of blood and crying through the trees.

“Yes.” Otabek whispered.

“Idiot.”

Otabek didn’t see Vonya again for a long while.


	6. 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bit of a short one, but it's a prelude to a long one...

****

“Oh well done.”   
  


“He’ll be a good investment.”    
  


“For all of us.”   
  


“Perhaps not I.”   
  


This last voice was equal to the hollowness of a deep cavern.   
  


Vonya made a small clicking sound with his teeth, which may have been mistaken for the sound a bullet makes when slotting into a chamber. “Even you will get your due. Probably. I don’t care. He is mine, you all can back the fuck off.”   
  


Eros pouted. “Yes, we are all well aware of the way you sealed the pact. I would have asked for blood myself.”   
  


“You just stick to sex juices, hag.“ Vonya said over his shoulder. He had materialised in the form of a dank, heavy cloud on the court, and now the tendrils of fog coalesced around his form. 

Each Lord was in his place, while at the same time, being in many places. Although Mammon was perched neatly in his seat, it wasn’t the division of self that was happening here, it was simply that Money was always changing hands, being slid, shuffled, won, lost, forced, given, taken all over the world. There was no civilisation without currency, and thus there was no civilisation without Mammon there, hovering and nodding. 

Mammon let his head tilt and a small knowing smile played across his lips.   
  


“You don’t usually pursue your investments, though.”   
  


“I didn’t ‘pursue’ anything.” Vonya replied, sliding onto his throne, corroding the armrest just a little bit more.   
  


“What I mean is, usually they come to you, and if they don’t you simply leave them be. Always more manna to be had elsewhere, after all.”   
  


Vonya shrugged. “He has potential. And as Bill said, if my plan pans out, he’ll feed us all. Bigger than Beckham.”   
  


“You think so?”   
  


Vonya grinned to himself. “Definitely.”   
  


“Still…”   
  


“Unlike you,” Vonya said pointedly, “I benefit far more from actively seeking out my deals. I saw the potential of him, and it was too good to be wasted. Why would I leave such a treasure unmined?”   
  


“I, too, have to seek out my sacrifices,” Eros pointed out. “Don’t you forget?”   
  


“I didn’t forget,” Vonya replied. “I just don’t care about you or your personification.”   
  


“For someone who doesn’t care about lust, you have taken two kisses from that boy, not to mention all the little innuendos…” Eros said carelessly, though it was a direct hit.   
  


“How about you-“   
  


“She is right.” The hollow voice sounded and the other four Lords turned to Hubris, who rarely weighed in on banter. “As is Vonya. We will all benefit from this one. But Vonya the most.”   
  


“Of course, I’m not a fool,” Vonya huffed.   
  


“That is not what I mean.”    
  


While Otabek hadn’t even been able to describe if Hubris were male or female, the Lords could see him very well, though he appeared differently to each. And now, Vonya felt steel grey eyes burn into him, and he looked away. Sometimes, the Lords were helplessly reminded that Hubris had known them  **_all_ ** , once.   
  


“I may have a sacrifice to offer up too, as it happens,” Eros piped up, now tired of talking about Vonya and not herself. “A Japanese little darling. Now he  _ is _ a treasure.”   
  


“Has he actually called upon you?” Bill inquired. Today he wore a bright orange jumpsuit, and a virtual reality headset.   
  


“Not yet. But he will. Even if he doesn’t, the flavour of his manna is delightful,” Eros told them, adjusting her skirt so that it showed more of her flesh, and settling against the chaise longue, more lush than any velvet. “And his name, my darlings, is Yuuri. Isn’t that amusing?”   
  


Vonya very actively did not react.   
  


“So basically, he feeds  _ you _ , and none of us. Boring,” Bill said, directing the attention towards himself.   
  


“You probably know him too, his online tag is Eros69…”   
  


As Eros and Bill spoke, Mammon leaned a little closer to Vonya, and spoke in a low voice.    
  


“Why  _ did  _ you tell him your name, Vonya? That’s not like you.”   
  


Vonya knifed a glance at the Lord of Affluence which had no effect at all.    
  


“I have somewhere to be,” he grunted, his outline already devolving.   
  


“As do we all, little Yuri.”   
  


“Fuck off, old man.”   
  


“Tell me about this little find of yours, Eros,” Mammon drawled, ignoring the Lord of War as he vanished, leaving the scent of gunpowder and grass in his wake.

  
  
-8-   
  


War.   
  


Victory.   
  


Glory   
  


Destruction   
  


Death   
  


The pain and glory and acclaim and the chaos.   
  


Vonya was all these, all the time, and every split second of morning and night. He was the scent of defeat in the cold dawn, the poppies that grew on once desolate fields, the remembrance of soldiers now passed, snuffed out for a falsely advertised moment of glory. He was the triumphant cry as the sword pierced the heart, the slide of the bullet, the boom of the canon, the longing for change.   
  


As he had one foot in Afghanistan, another foot was in Kenya, and another in Seattle, watching over a young boy, barely fifteen, being given his first weapon, a cheap glock, fourth hand but still firing. He would have his first terrifying, pants-wetting ride on a car that would take him past a club, the home of his gang’s rivals and he would or wouldn’t squeeze the trigger.   
  


War wasn’t the win or the loss. It was both, the fulcrum, poised between both.   
  


This was church, and and he got his wine in the form of results, whichever that might be. Cold and bitter despair, or steaming, molten glory, both fed him just as well as the other.    
  


He stood in the shadows as the boy took the gun, hands running over the metal, feeling the little nicks and scratches that told of its use before, his knees trembling and heart thudding. But no one would see him here, there was no deal.   
  


Only the moment.   
  


_ Why did you tell him your true name? _   
  


Vonya flinched, miniscule, a twitch of the mouth a split second of a crack in armour. Then it was gone.

Vonya hadn’t remembered his real name in over a century. But in the moment, it had simply popped onto his lips, and even he had taken a second before recognising what it was. Not just a disposable title, to be used and forgotten.

The name of the Lord who used to be human.


	7. 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> An early chapter cos I'm writing like a demon right now.
> 
> I have Playlist for this story, enjoy it if you like.
> 
> https://www.youtube.com/playlist?list=PL9DX92woS8nDFULzjQ3qjKr8t_HtXDR5F

In several years’ time, when some late evening show decided to make a quick and glamorized documentary of Otabek Altin’s rise to stardom, it would look like the kind of rags to riches, diamond in the rough story people gushed over. In the end, Otabek did choose California State, because they were as far as the apron strings would stretch, but he could still see his family once a quarter if he took a bus, which he did.  The scouts had that avaricious look to them, like an archaeologists who’d just found several; very well preserved, unbroken bones but didn’t want to shout about it quite yet in case someone heard. Otabek saw it, and didn’t care either way because he had a full ride to study whatever he felt like or play the game he loved at the same time.

But Otabek did see Vonya once more, before college happened. The day was warm, perfect for a picnic in the local park, and his parents had gone in with a few other in the neighbourhood to make it welcoming and celebratory without too much expenditure. Otabek preferred it that way anyway, watching his siblings run around with the other local kids, feeling the warmed up day on his skin, listening to the uneven music of mingled voices and laughter. The sun caught off unnaturally blonde hair, and his breathe hiccupped in his throat, making him nearly choke on his apple juice.

-8-

The Lord of War turned his attention and focussed on a single point amongst millions. A single point of light, a thin web of string that tailed towards a link that was inexorably bound to his centre. One of many, but some were always brighter than the rest. He slid into the space between spaces, and gathered more of himself, enough to be present and able to speak, to use the corporeal conglomeration of his body and pushed forward.

Sliding out of the in-between was like stepping out of black fog, and the grass was soft under his feet. He was still in a back alley behind Club Evol, and in the cavernous barrel of a cannon, and in the ticking of a bomb, and the lungs of a young Muslim girl named Zaara, the anger of a picketer shouting over tax, the sprained muscle of a quarterback. But he pooled his awareness into the feel of the sun on his skin, the slight breeze that blew from the west with a false promise of warmer days to come, the smell of burned meat that came from somewhere nearby. When he was mostly present, or as present as he was going to be, he found his target with the perfect clarity of a bloodhound seeking prey.

He moved, and reminded himself to use his legs, to bend at the knees like hinges, to step. Not to float, or insinuate like fog. In spite of it being over two centuries, there was still enough memory in him to recall how an actual physical body worked. He hadn’t been corporeal for a long time, but it was easier to communicate this way.

He saw the boy before the boy saw him. And halted his progress for a moment, to observe. This in itself was strange, for a being who never observed anything that wasn’t directly related to his personification. Bullets and blood, victory and gold, these were the things he had watched enough to fill a museum’s worth of information. But he watched the boy, Altin, with curious eyes.

And wondered.

Why did he shine so? Why was it, through the dark forbidden unreality in which he resided, did this one deal maker glitter? Not like an elusive flash in the murk, but a beacon. He shone like a hero, like the stuff celestial constellations were made of.

Vonya wondered, and kept it to himself. There was no way he was going to ask his colleagues. Ever.

But now the boy listened attentively to a smaller child, likely one of his siblings then muttered something in reply. As the child loped away, he turned back to the picnic table at which he sat, snagging a triangle shaped cracker from one of the bowls there, again part of the adult conversation, though not actively participant. His mother passed him a Styrofoam cup of something, and Vonya observed with the specificity of a scientist the way their fingers brushed over each other carelessly, the casual intimacy that was alien to him, but tugged something buried in the recesses of his muscle memory, making Vonya frown.

That was another thing. Why did he even care?

But he did, and he watched as a small smile pulled just one side of the Boy’s mouth, dark eyes warm, shoulders slumped forward and relaxed against the table. Even so, Vonya saw the glow of his innermost parts, the parts that humans weren’t allowed to see, pulsing like a heartbeat. He was joyous, happy, content….alive.

Vonya was drawn to it, feeling the absentia that made up most of his being stir and become…something. He started forward again. Something about that face made him want to see how he could meld it more.

When the Boy spotted him, the glow brightened and shimmered, the way it usually did when he saw Vonya, and the Lord couldn’t help but want that too. Even if it was silly and so very human. Even he, lord of war, was allowed superfluous indulgence once in awhile, not so?

The feeling was only magnified as he watched the boy almost but not quite drop his cup, eyes wide and surprised. Honestly the look of gormless amazement he managed to have every single time Vonya showed up was worth the hassle.

“Hello, Mr Altin.” He smiled as he reached the collective. The Boy still sat, gazing up at him like Vonya was an angel of death. He saw the flare of his light in his chest, his mind and then, once more, his groin. Vonya smirked. Predictable. Was this how Eros felt all the time? “Mind if I join you?”

“Uh-“

“Beka!” his mother exclaimed, grabbing onto her son’s shoulder and shaking him gently. “You did not invite your friend?”

“He’s …not-“

Deciding to take the lead, he stuck out his hand to the woman and smiled, his mouth remembering with rusty speed how to do it. “I’m glad I finally get to meet you Mrs Altin. My name is Yuri Plisetsky, I’m a friend of your son.”

“Ah, yes.” The woman replied uncertainly, touching his hand briefly before dropping it. “Are you school friends…?”

“We met during his school year, yes,” Yuri replied smoothly. “Not so, Otabek?”

The resolution finally glowed in Otabek’s eyes as he stood. “Ma, this is...Yuri. He joined my class late in the year…but he’s been helping me with college choices and things.”

“Which did you decide on in the end?” Yuri asked, quick and slick.

“California State.”

“Excellent choice. They’re close to the  Olympic program,” Yuri agreed the sending a wide-eyed look to his mother. “Your son is extremely talented. I’m glad he is getting noticed, it would be a shame for such a light to go to waste.”

This was exactly the right thing to say because Mrs. Altin was nothing if not the doting mother, and Yuri had just echoed exactly her own thoughts on the matter. She beamed.

“Yes! We are blessed to have such talent in our family, and Otabek has loved to kick a ball around since he could walk. My boy will be the brightest star in the sky one day.”

She said this as she hugged her son’s arm and Yuri blinked to hear his own meandering thoughts echoed back to him from another source.

“I am so glad you came Yuri. And you speak Russian so well! Where are you from?”

Again Yuri made a very quick recovery that went unnoticed by anyone but himself. He hadn’t realized that he’d slipped so easily into Otabek’s home language, and consequently, his own.

“I grew up in Moscow, but my family moved to America when I was fourteen,” he answered without batting an eye. “I am sorry, I forgot to bring any snacks…”

Otabek’s mother tutted at him, her hand waving his apology away while the other passed him a cup identical to Otabek’s sloshing with transparent piss-colored liquid.

“What is this?” he asked Otabek with a sneer, as his mother turned away to say something to her neighbor, and Otabek took the moment to shoulder him away from the table and walk them in the direction of the swing sets in the distance.

“It’s apple juice. What are you doing here? Now?” Otabek hissed.

“Well, that’s not a very nice welcome.”

“Oh, I am sorry, _Yuri,_ ” Otabek replied, slicing his name through the air, and Vonya felt the reality around him shimmer and wobble. “Welcome to my graduation party.”

“Thank you,” Yuri responded, holding the cup out. “This looks like piss.”

“It’s nice,” Otabek defended. “My mother made it herself. You could at least try it.”

“No thanks. I don’t eat.”

Otabek grabbed the cup before it fell, glancing back to see if they had witnesses, then carried on walking. Yuri felt Otabek touch his elbow hesitantly, trying to direct them, and found it amusing.

“Sure, babe, but let’s get a bit further away from your parents ok?” he teased and was rewarded when he saw Otabek’s eyes bulge and cheeks flush. The glow in his chest shrunk then exploded outward again and Yuri just had to laugh out loud.

“You’re so easy.”

“Did you just come here to embarrass me?” Otabek pouted, glaring at the horizon.

Yuri had initially thought to simply check in on his charge, but the reason had since changed.

“Pretty much.”

“Hey.”

A new voice paused them, and simultaneously the glow of Otabek’s aura dimmed and changed from the color of clear water to a murky yellow.

“Hey Chris,” he said, was clearly forced politeness, turning to the new arrival. While Vonya had definitely been responsible for executing Otabek’s personal angry revenge on his ex, he’d never actually seen the guy. He was tall, still filling out but he was clearly going to be a big guy one day, if he kept working out. His hair was brown with blonde tips and he was sporting a beard that he probably thought looked handsome but to Yuri’s mind just looked prepubescent. He didn’t even bother to hide the glare he directed at Yuri.

“Hello,” he greeted coldly, and Yuri saw at the center of this boy's chest, a dull red glow that looked like it burned.

“Hey ugly,” he replied truthfully.

Otabek groaned. “Ugh, just, excuse him-“

“ _What_ did you call me?”

“Ugly,” Yuri clarified, ignoring the threatening loom of the other guy. “Did I stutter?”

Chris’ nostrils flared like a bull and Yuri chuckled.

“Chris, just…what do you want?” Otabek said quickly, pushing a hand then a shoulder between them. “I thought you said you weren’t gonna come.”

“I wasn’t,” Chris said still eyeing Yuri who returned it blandly. “But you didn’t reply to my text…”

“I _told_ you I wouldn’t,” Otabek said, sharply.

Chris shifted, shrugging his one shoulder. “I thought if we could talk… Can we talk in private?”

“No.” Yuri cut in.

“Who are you, his boyfriend?” Chris spat.

“Sure,” Yuri shrugged. “Why not?”

“Yuri!” Otabek hissed.

“Are you serious?” Chris said, stunned. “Beck, you already hopped in the sack with someone else?”

Yuri snorted a laugh. 

“Oh my god.” Otabek groaned again, rubbing his face. “Look, Chris. I _don’t_ want to talk. We’re all talked out, and _you_ decided to end things. Stop trying to- just stop. We’re done.”

“Are you seriously with this guy?” Chris angrily flung a hand at Yuri. “He looks like a girl.”

“What's that now?” Yuri spat, and the wind picked up a little, warmer than before.

“You heard me. Did I stutter?” Chris returned, his face becoming ugly.

“Guys,” Otabek attempted, hands up and placating. But Yuri could feel his insides growling, and the tips of his fingers felt rough, the inside of his mouth tasted like metal.

“Well, Chris the ex-boyfriend, why don’t you come on over and see how much of a girl I am?” Yuri purred, the threat an undercurrent in his tone. As humans were not completely disconnected from their lizard brains yet, Chris seemed to shrink a bit, though his face was confused and angry.

“Are you actually _flirting_ with me right now?” Chris asked disbelievingly. Yuri chuckled.

“No, honey, I was just giving you a chance to suck my dick.”

“Yuri!” Otabek sounded like he was choking on his spit. “Stop-”

But Chris’s hands had already turned into fists. “Fuckboys like you only want one thing.”

“Oh, you’re right.  There was only one thing I want from Otabek,” Yuri conceded slyly, then dropped his tone. “And I got it already.”

Now Chris turned to Otabek, who was as stunned looking at Yuri. “ _You slept with him_? When I asked you over and over… were you fucking around with me for two months? You-”

“Careful there,” Yuri cautioned. “You’re telling me you broke up with him because he wouldn’t sleep with you?”

Chris was pure loathing when he looked at Yuri. “It’s none of your business.”

“Why am I bothering to talk to you.” Yuri looked at Otabek out of the side of his eye, placing his hands on his hips. “Did this dickwad break up with you because you weren’t putting out?”

Otabek was looking more and more annoyed. “This conversation is going nowhere-”

“Well, I guess you're cheap, and an idiot,” Yuri directed at the enraged ex. “If you wanted a quick fuck, then Otabek wasn’t really your guy was he?”

“Wait-”

“And maybe you didn’t deserve him,” Yuri went on, ignoring Otabek’s hand on his arm. “As to why the fuck you are here at all when you weren’t invited-”

“ _Yuri._ ”

Otabek’s voice was quiet now, pleading and Yuri turned to his soft tone. Dark eyes met his squarely.

“Yuri, calm down. Things are getting....”voodoo-like

It was true. What had once been a breeze was now a stiff, hot wind and the air smelled like an approaching storm. Chris himself was no longer angry or jerky but his eyes held a familiar fear now as he looked on Yuri, seeing the shadow that loomed much larger than Yuri’s fragile human form allowed.

“Enough,” Otabek whispered, a wide hand holding the crook of his elbow. Vonya breathed in….and Yuri breathed out. Then he smiled, and the wind died, the trees ceased their panicked rustle. 

“Hey Chris,” Yuri interceded, rocking on his heels. “How’s the backne? Feeling…itchy?”

“What-” Chris’s eyes widened and he flinched. Then he flinched again. “I gotta go. I’ll text you later.”

“Don’t bother,” Yuri called to his hurriedly retreating back. “We’ll be making out.”

“Could. You. Shut. Up,” Otabek hissed and laid heavy hands on his shoulders, pushed them away from the scene and the knot of family still at the tables. “My parents might hear you.”

“What a shock, you’re still in the closet,” Yuri retorted.

Otabek directed them to a tree large enough to stand behind and rounded on him.

“ I am  _ not _ closeted, but my parents are solid Christians and just because I don’t believe what they do doesn’t mean am disrespectful enough to force it on them. Not now, at least. And my private life is mine, so butt out. Don’t go telling people we’re dating.”

“But we kissed and everything?” Yuri pretended to whine, but his grin gave him away.

Otabek closed his eyes and sighed. “Look…this isn’t fair. You know I think you’re  hot. I _know_ you know it. Teasing me and fucking around with my life isn’t part of the deal, right?”

“No, it’s an added bonus. For me.”

“It’s horrible. If I had known you were going to torment me, I would never have made the deal. And now I kind of wish I hadn’t.”

In spite of everything that Vonya was, Yuri felt a pang of…unpleasantness, hearing that. He took a small step back.

“Alright.”

Otabek looked up, his anxious brow creased. “Excuse me?”

“Alright. I’ll stop teasing. Today, anyway.”

“You’re _staying_?” otabek voice kicked up a notch and Yuri rolled his eyes in mild annoyance. 

“Rude. No, I'm not staying.”

“It's just that...you don't usually hang around…” Otabek stuttered, looking nervous.

“So I'm not welcome?”

Yuri himself didn't know why he was even bothered about it, but he abruptly felt the need to latch on to the moment, to remain. But the clear hesitation in the Boy, making his glow shimmer and recede, made him falter. He retreated a little then, the edges of his reality blurring again. He was the crumpling of a bullet casing, the man agonizing over death tolls, the arrogant dictator, the roar of a crowd in the aftermath of a goal, the stamp of feet, the burning breath, the darkness unfolding behind the eyes, the cold overtaking sight-

“Stay.”

Yuri blinked and was brought back by a glow. “Hmm?”

“Stay.” the Boy repeated, eyes serious and true. “Uh...if you want to.”

Yuri blinked at him once more and tasted warm summer air. “I don’t.”

“My mother made food.”

Yuri pushed himself away from the tree trunk and began sauntering back towards to epicenter of the party, otabek following like he knew he would.

“What did she make?” he asked idly, ignoring how good the sun felt on his temporary skin.

“It's something called Pirozhki,” otabek said beside him. “It’s a sort of traditional, pie type thing-”

“I know what that is,” Yuri replied then realized what he’d said. How did he know? Since when?

“I know what that is,” he repeated, a little quieter.

The silence settled between them as they made their slow way back, while Yuri pondered why he knew what a pirozhki was and why he was suddenly afraid of tasting one.

“So...can I call you Yuri now?” otabek asked, timidity edging his words.

Yuri looked at him from the corner of his eye. “I don't care.”

“Ok.” Otabek. “It’s just...more likely than Vonya.”

“It's just a name.” it was just a name...but it also wasn't. And the fact of it was something Yuri glimpsed but couldn't identify yet, a flash of a fin, a whisper of a feather.

Otabek puffed his cheeks out in a delayed sigh. “Ok. So, what did you do to Chris?”

“What an asswipe.” Yuri retorted instantly. 

“He was nice at first-”

“I don't care.”

“He ran off pretty quick though.”

Yuri shrugged. “Backne is a terrible affliction. So I've heard.”

Otabek only laughed, a small sound, and Yuri faded from corporeality taking the memory with him.

It was the first time, he’d heard the boy laugh.

 

-8-

 

“Where is your friend?”

Otabek turned to the empty space beside him and looked at it stupidly for a second before swallowing his disappointment and shaking his head. 

“He had to go. He..had an argument with Chris…” Otabek told his mother, stammering a little. Vonya’s- Yuri’s- leaving always left him off balance.

“Ah. well.” replied his mother, repositioning a bowl of dip and recapping a bottle of juice in a very decided fashion.

“Ma?” he inquired, and she paused a little before shrugging stiffly.

“I don't think you should be around boys like that,” she said without looking at him, touching the St’ Anthony pendant at her neck.

“Boys like what?” Otabek tried carefully taking his discarded juice cup and sipping.

“He just…” his mother halted. “There is something about him, that Yuri, that is...not right.”

“Ma…” Otabek started feeling a harshly bitter sinking feeling in his chest, like a heavy nail pushing further into his heart.

“He seems...hollow. Like ...a void.” she went on, looking off into nothing and Otabek reversed mentally.

“I think he’s had a hard life…” Otabek fumbled for a lie.

“No no,” she interrupted. “There are some people you meet who have a huge space inside filled with things but there is no filling that space. And those people are very sad…” she turned to him with troubled eyes, seeming confused for n endless moment...then shook it off. Her face changed instantly, the clouded look replaced with the eager busyness he knew well. “My mind must be wondering. Anyway, i think you should be careful around people like that. You have a future now. Not everyone does.”

“I know Ma.” Otabek replied, his mother already bustling away, seemingly determined ot to linger in the moment. But otabek recalled the ghostly, haunted look on Yuri’s face he’d seen, the feeling that he was inexorably being dragged away by things other than real, other than natural, and his quick need to pull him back.

Otabek knew he was being an idiot. What could a god gain from a human's help?


	8. 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which we go to college and learn a bit more about Vonya...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm really enjoying the comments and feedback I'm getting here. Especially the questions! Feel free to hit me up on my Tumblr :) My asks are open.
> 
> https://micaelavdb.tumblr.com/

It took a few attempts, but Otabek eventually found his dorm room. The building itself was an attractive face brick facade, and his mother looked around with critical eye of someone who cleaned such places for a living, the little sniff of her nose indicating that it only just passed muster. But then again, it was student accommodation, it was free and Otabek was far too wound up to even care if there were dust bunnies in the corners.

 

He was at college!

 

It hadn't been an option until two weeks before, when he and his parents had crowded around the small circular kitchen table, weighing up the various options. Otabek had gotten in on a sponsorship scholarship, but that was it. It didn't include student housing, because he wasn't a full time student and that meant that he’d have to live elsewhere. Somewhere close to college but not too close, because the closer the apartment, the more costly it was. But he couldn't live so far away that he would end up spending just as much just to get there. It hadn't been a pleasant kind of discussion, and Otabek was loathing it more and more as the days went on. He couldn't work, not even part time, and his parents were already stretched thin, and now there was talk of going to the bank for yet another loan…

 

And then a letter had arrived.

 

Otabek had come home from a jog, his father bent over the pages, his smile thin but relief clear in his mother's face. It had said that due to an anonymous sponsor, it had been arranged that Otabek Altin would be rooming in student dormitories, Mary House, cost free but for basic amenities, like use of the laundromat and cafeteria.

 

“We are blessed!” his mother had said, hugging her husband. But Otabek had seen the symbol stamped onto the letterhead; a Laurel Wreath curling around a green ring, and thought privately that his mother was thanking the wrong god.

 

So in the end he got into the old toyota avenir on move in day with his mother, on her day off because she insisted he wouldn't be starting his new college journey alone, and made the three hour trip to California and his new home. Vonya’s wreath aside, he hadn't seen him since the day of the picnic, and heard nothing else, and that was just fine. Life was already stressful enough.

 

He peered around the boxes he was carrying and found his target.

 

“Number 351, I think this is it, this time.” he told his mother. She moved around him to open the door and found it locked.

 

“The key is in my pocket.” he offered and she went to get it but they heard a voice from the other side of the door.

 

“Sorry! Just give me a sec…”

 

Otabek and his mother listened to the sounds of muted clattering, a scuffle of feet and the click of the door unlocking. It opened and Otabek took in the small, dark haired, clearly asian guy  with surprise.

 

“I thought-”

 

“Did you-”

 

They both started at the same time. Otabek lapsed into silence and shared a look with his mother. Then the guy started again.

 

“Sorry, I thought my roommate was only arriving tomorrow...Are you Jason van der Bilt? Nice to meet you.”

 

A hand was held out, and both Altins attention was caught by the dark purple nail polish.

 

“Uh no, I’m Otabek Altin. This is Mary-House right?”

 

The hand was pulled back a little. “It is. I guess they got the assignments mixed up again. Well, it's alright, come on in, make yourself comfortable. If Jason shows up we’ll figure it out. Oh right, and my name is Yuuri Katsuki.”

 

The hand was held out again. But Otabek knew that his mother wouldn't see the common courtesy at all, only the hot pink gym shorts that Yuuri wore, his bare feet and painted toenails. The open smile wouldn't register, only the white shirt with a huge Pink, Blue and White rainbow slashed across it. He watched in slow motion dread as she inhaled a righteous breath and turned to to him, ignoring the man in front of them.

 

 _“I think I am going to speak to the principal_.” she said to him in Russian as Otabek bent down to relieve himself of the boxes.

 

“ _Ma, there is no principal here. Only a Dean, and you cant just walk in and talk to him_.”

 

“ _You cannot live with this person._ ” she said, jabbing a finger in Yuuri’s direction, who’s easy going smile had fallen as he watched them.

 

“ _He’s fine, ma!_ ” Otabek tried to insist without changing his tone. Even if his mother didn't care about being rude, he still had to live here for the foreseeable future. “ _He’s just a friendly guy_.”

 

“ _He’s a deviant!”_

 

Otabek hid his flinch behind his hand, rubbing at his face.

 

“Is there a problem?” Yuuri inquired, watching them shrewdly.

 

“No, nothing, my mom just...was saying that-”

 

“I do not want my son living with you.” she interjected, glaring at Yuuri like he was a demon incarnate. Immediately the walls went up in Yuuri’s eyes, and Otabek despaired, thinking that this was the worst way to start his first day. But the short man leveled a cold look at her.

 

“Is that so? And why not?” he asked icily.

 

“Because while I may hate the sin and not the sinner, I do not want my son exposed to your...ways.” she finished, hand fingering her pendant, as she had so many times before, making it almost completely smooth and unrecognizable.

 

“My _ways_?” Yuuri repeated. “What ways?”

 

“I see your clothes. I see the way you dress. You should be ashamed.”

 

“Well, I'm not. And I don't see any point in standing here while you assume that your son will somehow start painting his nails just because he’s rooming with me. Ridiculous.” Yuuri said, waggling his eyebrows in a well-aimed shot of sarcasm.

 

The door was slammed shut.

 

Otabek rounded on his mom before she could begin her lecture, striving to balance his feeling of being utterly embarrassed by her and the need to carefully navigate her away from the situation.

 

“ _Ma, you can't complain about this, it's free, remember? I promise,” he said over her opening mouth, “I will go to the housing office when I get a chance, but honestly I don't have a  problem staying here. He seems nice, polite and clean. That’s pretty good in my book.”_

 

“ _How can you say such things? I raised you_ -”

 

“ _To be polite, God-fearing and love as God loves. So far, I've done all these things_ ,” he said pointedly and watched her words roll back on themselves, catching in her throat and giving her a choked expression. He clasped her shoulders gently, kissing her forehead. “ _Ma, it's my first day, ok? Let me handle this. You need to start back if you're gonna get back on the road before traffic_.”

 

She looked up at him, eyes watery and unsure. They had already done this in the car, between lectures on keeping himself clean and showering with shoes on and being careful of the food they might sell here. The tears were unending, but otabek’s patience was not. Especially after the scene that had just spilled all over the hallway.

 

He walked her back to the Toyota, and after promising to text, call and make sure he got a new dorm mate, she finally got inside and he waved her off, feeling both heavier and lighter.

 

Then he went back to his new home.

 

After a thoughtful pause, he stopped at a vending machine, fished out just enough money to buy a Snickers, then bravely knocked on the door once more. Unlike before, it opened partway, cautious, the face visible in the gap looking ornery and suspicious. He held the Snickers bar out instantly.

 

“I'm sorry.” he said putting all his earnest feeling into the words.

 

There was an eternity before Yuuri took the snickers, and let the door fall open. The guy himself simply walked into the room without offering to help, all his earlier friendliness replaced with icy dissociation. Otabek moved his stuff in in silence, while his dark-haired roommate watched, arms crossed, pink shorts screaming loud. When Otabek finally shut the door, he was caught by a glare that could turn lava back into stone.

 

“Ok, let's get this out right now. Are we gonna have problems?” he flicked a disdainful finger at the door, insinuating his mother. “Those kinds of problems?”

 

“No.” Otabek assured instantly. “I don’t share my mother’s…”

 

“Judgmental and archaic attitude?”

 

“That.”

 

“Cos i am not relishing the idea of sharing a room with a church-bred homophobe. That's gonna make things really tense, you know.”

 

“No, we aren't. I’m _not_ like that.”

 

“That?” Yuuri asked with a raised eyebrow.

 

“I am not a homophobe. Not even close. I honestly don't judge anyone either way.” Otabek

answered honestly. He let himself sit on the bare mattress of his bed, and splayed his hands.

 

"Everyone judges everyone."

 

“Not me. My parents are religious. I'm not. That's all.”

 

“Uh huh.” Yuuri said, his disbelief still lingering but Otabek could see him thawing. “You’re sure?”

 

“Extremely.”

 

“Hmph. well, since it's already been brought up, I'm _not_ gay, i'm bisexual, probably. It doesn't matter cos _I'm_ not trash. I won't bring dates back here, unless I’ve organised it first, and i barely date anyway, boys or girls.”

 

Otabek hesitated a moment. “Well, me too.”

 

“You too?”

 

“Yeah...i'm bi. Definitely.”

 

There was a silence in which otabek could feel the mood of the room thaw and do a 180 shift.

 

Yuuri prettily dark eyes crinkled at the edges.

 

“Oh. Wow. Ok.” he said which a huge smile. “And I’m guessing mommy-dearest doesn't know?”

 

Otabek rubbed his neck. “Look, no she doesn't, no one in my family does. But I still love and respect my mom, ok? She didn't make a good impression just now...but she’s a good person.”

 

Yuuri nodded gently, . “Alright, noted. And as long as I never have to meet her again, I’m happy go along with your version.”

 

“Agreed.” Otabek chuckled, willing to let anything slide in the interests of a smooth college transition. Yuuri cleared his throat.

 

“Can we um, make an agreement not to fool around with each other though? That would make things reeely complicated and I don't feel like dealing with that.”

 

“Oh my god, no.” Otabek said. “Honestly, I am here to study, and play soccer, that stuff… This is longest conversation I’ve ever had about my, uh, preferences to be honest.” otabek felt himself flush a little and Yuuri obviously caught it because he laughed openly.

 

“Oh lord, no. you're cute but it would never work. I'm way too out-there, and you find the closet comfy.”

 

“Obviously.” otabek half smiled.

 

“Honestly I thought you were set to hate me and go straight to the Dean.”

 

“My mom was.” Otabek said. “Not me. I talked her down. She’s just...traditional.”

 

“Your face would have fooled me.”

 

“My face?”

 

But Yuuri had flopped down on his bed, narrowly missing the open laptop on it, and folded his legs, as limber as a ballet dancer.

 

“So, can we agree never to talk about this again?” he asked, curling his hands under his ankles and tilting his head.

 

“Yes please.” Otabek agreed vehemently.

 

 

-8-

 

 

Yuuri, as it turned out, was a fairly easy roommate to have. Though Otabek’s experience was limited, he thought he do a whole lot worse than a small, easy-going guy next door sort of person. When they were alone in the dorm together, Yuuri couldn’t stop chatting, making it easy for Otabek to sit back and be the introvert he actually was. When they were out in public, Yuuri seemed to dial it down somewhat, though his clothes were a mixed bag of loud, classy and eclectic. And considering that once his classes and training launched in earnest, he barely spent any time in the dorm room anyway, it suited everyone concerned. He let his mother believe the white lie that he couldn't get reassigned, and became comfortable.

 

Apparently Yuuri must have too, because not even a couple of weeks into semester did the guy come back from the showers, drop his towel to the floor and go to drag his sleep pants out from under his star-speckled pillow. Before Otabek could snatch his eyes away, he saw the smooth, clean shaven crotch, and its stylised tattoo that seemed to curve around the base of his penis and end in a red ring around it. The blush started without bothering to wait and Otabek wished he’d just kept his nose in his textbook.

 

“Uh, sorry.” he muterred.

 

“For?” he heard Yuuri say, then laugh. “Oh, I'm guessing nudity isn't a thing in your house.”

 

“Not really no.” Otabek said, still staring at the text in front of him but trying to laugh off his childish embarrassment. “Nudity is for sinners and dead people.”

 

Yuuri laughed aloud, an uninhibited, carefree sound. “Well, my parents own a bathhouse, so I grew up seeing all the bits and pieces.”

 

Otabek heard the bedsprings creak a little when Yuuri sat on his bed and risked a look, hoping that Yuuri would at least have the pants on by now.

 

“Do they know about…?” Otabek asked tentatively, still uncertain when talking about sexuality and people in a way that didn't sound like angry scripture. Luckily, Yuuri seemed to hear the unspoken words, which was another thing Otabek liked and admired about his roommate, this ability to set people at their ease, to be uncaring of awkwardness.

  
  


“About me liking boys and girls? Sure.” Yuuri said, rubbing his wet, inky hair into spiky tails around his head. “They've always encouraged me to be comfortable with myself, no matter what. They figured it out before I did, actually.”

 

“Yeah?”

 

“Oh yes. I had this crazy poster collection of a male russian figure skaters up in my room, _well_ into my teens. When I told my mom about liking guys, she pointed at the biggest one and said “You think?”

 

Otabek huffed a small laugh. “Really?”

 

“Well something along those lines anyway. It doesn't really matter anyway because I'm not supposed to date at all while I'm here. They are very keen on me _not_ wasting my education, very asian that way. When I got the scholarship, they were so relieved...”

 

Otabek watched Yuuri trail off and the light in his eyes dim a little, an unfamiliarly serious set to his mouth. He sat up, crossing his legs on the bed, Yuuri’s opposite.

 

“I’m on a scholarship too. Almost a full ride actually.” Otabek said. “There's no way I would have gone to college without it, to be honest.”

 

Yuuri was surprised, a smile ghosting over his expression. “Oh. Well, I didn't know that.”

 

“Well, who goes around saying they're poor?” Otabek tried to say with a small smile.

 

“Well, Otabek, I wasn't going to judge you on your _one_ bag of clothes or anything.”

 

They shared a chuckle, Otabek’s much more muted but no less genuine.

 

“I don’t have a full ride though, I still have a part time job.” Yuuri added, leaning down and bringing his laptop up from under his bed.

 

“Oh yeah, what do you do?” Otabek asked, realising how little he knew about his new friend.

 

“Um…..service industry.” Yuuri said lightly. “So, did you like my tattoo?”

 

Otabek’s brain trainwrecked and his mouth shut. Yuuri grinned slyly.

 

“I _know_ you saw it. Isn't it pretty? Wanna see it again?”

 

“No!”

 

“Aren't you even curious about how I get it so smooth?”

 

“Oh god.”

 

“You need to be less prudish, Otabek.”

 

“I need to finish my assignment.”

 

“I use this cream-”

 

“Yuuri!”

 

-8-

 

**_Moscow, 1763_ **

 

 _The house was full of noise, happy and raucous and the only one not participating in it was Yuri Plisetsky. He watched his older brothers clap strong hands on each other’s shoulders, eyes alight with nervous, eager energy, every now and then a huge bubble of laughter would erupt from their throats, blonde hair tossed back. Their mother wept quietly in her room, and their father nodded, looking every bit the resolute patriot. But Yuri was not laughing, or nodding, or_ _eager. He was terrified._

 

_Because Yuri Plisetsky did not want to go to war._

 

_He did not see any kind of excitement in the prospect of dying. He did not want to fight for his country. He did not care about beating the polish bastards._

 

_Snatching his bag from the floor, he made for the door but not before feeling the heavy calloused hand of his father than on his slim shoulders. He hunched but turned without meeting his gaze._

 

_“Yuri.” His father rumbled. “This will happen. You had better make peace with it.”_

 

_“I have rehearsal.” Was all Yuri replied and his father let him go. Yuri’s feet hit the sodden ground hard as he jogged his way to the theatre, concentrating on warming his muscles against the cold and running away from fate._

 

_-8-_

 

_“Again! That was revolting!”_

 

_Yuri panted, the sweat down his spine already soaking through his leotard. “Sorry mistress.” He huffed and straighter once more. A hard swipe to the inside of his foot made his tilt it outwards some more, ignoring the muscle that threatened to seize on his inner thigh._

 

_“You must work harder, Yuri.” Mistress Donovan recited at him and he made sure his face didn’t betray a hint of irritation at the admonition, even though he had heard it so many times now…_

 

_“You are a boy, boys don’t have the natural grace and flow of women. Your turn out is terrible and your hips too flat.”_

 

_Yuri had already bled enough blood, sweat, and tears to acknowledge the reality, but it never stopped his dance instructor from pointing out that he would always be struggling, always be working harder and harder to achieve his dreams. He laid a feather-lite hand on the bar._

 

_“Again!”_

 

_-8-_

 

_The night was too cold to be standing out in the open, but Yuri couldn’t move. His eyes were glued to huge poster glued to the centre pillar outside the church, announcing a call to arms._

 

_The angry letters shouted at him as icy wind worked its way under his trousers and through the thin fabric of his trousers. He shouldn’t have been frightened of mere ink on paper, but he was and he shivered violently._

 

_I don’t want to go to the Ukraine. I don’t want to shoot anyone. I don’t care enough about religion or politics to kill another person! I don’t care about this stupid rebellion! He shouted at the letters, soundless and desperate._

 

_“I just want to dance.” He whispered aloud; pathetic, hopeless._

 

_“Well, that’s a little selfish.” A voice chuckled darkly beside him. Yuri jumped away, stumbling over the uneven ground._

 

_“Where did you-“ he started._

 

_“Careful, you might twist an ankle and then no more dancing for you, my friend.” The man said leaning up against the pillar, at ease. The man seemed like stranger, the kind of creature that demons and war mongers bred. Large shoulders, dark weathered skin, face barely visible over the lifted collar of his heavy coat. The only thing that stood out was his red hat. Pushed back and perched on his head like an afterthought, making his seem jaunty and clever. He waved an unlit cigarette at Yuri._

 

_“Got a light?” he asked a broad smirk on his face, eyes glinting like two shining black beetles._

 

_Yuri still eyed him suspiciously. “I don’t smoke.”_

 

_“You’re a dancer, right? All dancers smoke. Its how you keep the weight off, yes?”_

 

_Yuri still hesitated the man made an impatient sound. “I’m not going to tell anyone, brat. Now hand me some matches.”_

 

_After glancing around, confirming they were alone, Yuri did, in fact, pull out his bag and matches. He pulled out half a hand-rolled cigarette left over from earlier and lit it before handing the matchbook over. He was careful to avoid touching, even a little because something about the man made him on edge._

 

_“What are you doing walking around at this time?” Yuri muttered, hunkering down into his own coat and steaming his feet._

 

_“Well, not dancing.”_

 

_Yuri took his matchbook back and turned away. “Have a good night.” He said curtly over his shoulder and aiming for a breakaway street._

 

_“I was looking for you actually, Yuri Plisetsky.”_

 

_Yuri’s step faltered and he looked back, glowering. “I don’t know what you’ve heard, but I am no pervert. I’m not interested old man.”_

 

_The man laughed, and the odd way the flickering street lamp shone off his teeth unnerved Yuri._

 

_It was like metal, inhuman. “no no, I don’t want your body. But I heard you speaking your complaints to the poster and I thought I might be able to…give you a sympathetic shoulder?”_

 

_Yuri’s eyes darted between the poster and the man. “I said nothing. I have no complaints.”_

 

_“That’s a bad lie.” The man said, pointing his cigarette at Yuri and grinning. “You have complaints aplenty. ‘Why can I not dance as I wish to? Why am I not as big or broad as my brothers? Why must I go fight a war that will only end in death?’” he took a hard pull on his cigarette, one eye squinting shut as he did. “You are definitely a complainer. And a bit of a childish whiner too.”_

 

_Yuri felt his shoulders stiffen and a frown form on his face. “Fuck you, old man.”_

  


_“No, I already said I’m not interested.” The man replied as he stepped closer, legs swinging casually as if he were walking a boulevard in summer instead of a cold, friendless night in autumn. “But still, you might have something that could interest me. We could strike a bargain, perhaps.”_

 

_“What on earth could you give me?” Yuri returned derisively. “You will be on the battlefield like everyone else, your blood will make pretty little splatters on the grass just like mine.”_

 

_“Ha. No, it will not.”_

 

_Yuri’s dislike for the stranger grew. “Why? You government? Will it be fun to watch us little men run around doing your bidding and winning your war?” he spat bitterly. “Doesn’t matter that we have lives! That we have better things to do than fight? My brothers act as if they’ve been given a gold medal while my mother cries into her cooking! She knows we will all die!”_

 

_The stranger’s eyes glinted in the recesses of his collar. The cherry of his cigarette flaring. “You don’t want to die.”_

 

_“No one wants to die.” Yuri returned sullenly._

 

_“Well, I am not government, but I still won’t be dodging one bullet of this petty opinionated rivalry.” The man gestured to the poster. “Do you want to know how?”_

 

_Yuri narrowed his eyes at the man, distrusting without even thinking about it. But…_

 

_“What’s your name?” he demanded._

 

_The broad smile was back. “You remember your manners, finally. My name, “he held out a broad, scarred hand. “Is Vonya.”_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Answer some questions? Make some more? hehehehehehehe


	9. 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Guess I'll be changing some tags...

Vonya didn’t show up again, and the mark stayed plain and innocuous on his forearm. Eventually, as the months went on and life swept him along with its energetic change, he stopped noticing it anymore. Sometimes, the worry of it niggled at his mind, the thought that he exactly found out what Vonya wanted from him in return and certainly hadn’t explained what the mark meant. But out of sight, out of mind.

Although he was more attentive now, to world news.

It was one evening, while watching the standoff between Liverpool and Brazil, that he saw it. It was during a slow-motion replay of an absolutely spectacular goal, by virtue of it grazing the underside of the goalie’s elbow and shooting into the net. On Enrique’s thigh, hidden just under the hem of his shorts but pulled up just enough to reveal the edge of a Wreath, framing a green ring.

He wouldn’t have seen it if the camera hadn’t gone in for a close-up. It was a little blurred, but it was definitely there. Otabek immediately put his hand over the mark, which he now thought of more as a ‘brand’.

“Right.” He muttered to himself. “Right.”

He turned the tv off and retreated back to his dorm.

 

-8-

 

College life did not believe in gradual acclimation; Otabek was thrown face first into the chaos of warning pamphlets, navigating meals and clean laundry, academic workloads and assignments, and the best and most important, training.

His coach was as far unlike his previous one as could be possible. A solid, chunk of a man, the kind who used to be built like a wall and still was, but a little soft around the edges in his middle age, with a permanent, silver two-o'clock shadow over the lower half of his face. His expression was always grouchy and he gave the impression of just having got out of bed and being pissed about it. But he was  _ good _ . The first session Otabek had with him, he put Otabek methodically through his paces, observing him along with his new teammates, and at the end of a taxing workout that left him feeling exhausted and energised at the same time, had taken otabke aside and pointed out that his boots were too small and where he was strong and where he needed to work a bit harder. There was a feeling of caring underneath his grumpy expression as he’d said, “You have a lot of talent, the field knows you. We just need to hone that skill.”

And his first game was few days away. This was the benefit of playing on an indoor court; the season no longer dictated his active and inactive periods. He could have the thrill and satisfaction all year round.

Otabek had nodded feeling satisfied and gladder than ever. So far, his life was pretty fucking awesome.

 

-8-

 

“Hey, Durin, do you have a charger I can use?”

“What's your phone?”

“Um...Samsung.”

“What a coincidence, same here.”

During dug out the tangled cord from his gym bag and tossed it to Otabek with a smile before stuffing the bag in his locker. “See you on the green.”

“Thanks.”

Otabek had found out that it didn't take long to make friends with a bunch of people who were just as excited and soccer-obsessed as he was, and Durin was a nice guy, more smiley than most, easy to get along with. Otabek was glad he’d been given the adjacent locker. He’d already discovered that Durin, while American, had thick Swedish blood running through his veins, which his explained his height and course blonde hair, and the only thing that rivaled his attention for the game was the Swedish National Football team and his girlfriend Natalie. 

Otabek figured that with the amount he’d heard about Natalie, and the endless photos Durin liked to show around, he could probably say he knew Natalie better than his mother. It was cute, the way Durin’s square face became soft when looking at a picture of her, or the way he checked his phone first thing when coming back to the change room.  Long distance was hard, clearly.

He found an outlet and set up his phone on a nearby bench, before going to kit up. He'd been pretty sure the battery life was fine before leaving that morning. He was already late though and set to lace up his boots in the empty locker room.

Someone sat next to him.

“Seriously, only people over 50 have the excuse not to have an Instagram account.” a voice said beside him, reedy with annoyance. Otabek jerked hard, moving himself a full length away from the stranger. 

A boy dressed in a fluorescent purple jumpsuit covered in blue lightning bolts tilted an unimpressed look at him, but it was only when the sunglasses were slid down a notch that Otabek remembered. No eyes, no iris, no white, only endless lines of code.

“...Bill?” he breathed.

“That's me,” Bill replied, popping his gum and chewing noisily. In his hands was Otabek’s phone, Bill’s fingers moving in a blur over its touchscreen. “Just popping in to set this up for you.”

“What?”

“He’s right, you say that a lot.”

“You...wait..” Otabek looked around him for prying ears that weren't there. Then brought his attention back to himself a breathed in. “Ok, what are you doing here. I thought that...well, I have a bargain with Vonya, not you.”

Not that he’d seen him in ages.

“Yeah, but Vonya explained it right? You feed all of us. And besides, where do you think the money came from to get your dorm room? And who changed the info on the account? And who made sure that Coach Hangover would be teaching at California State so you’d have the best  possible coach on your rise to fame?”

Otabek’s could only stare. Bill popped his gum again, carrying on with his rattling, quick speech. There was the odd sense that his words have echoed a split second after said, the voice different each time. “The first two were Mammon and me, but the last was Vonya. We like to make sure our investments work out you know. Took a bit of string pulling but hey, what’s money but ones and zeroes am I right? I thought you'd figured all that out. Even Eros is threading her way into your story. It's quite neat actually, you wouldn't believe-”

“But I haven't done anything yet!” Otabek burst. “I haven't won any games, earned any...worship, or whatever. I just got here.”

Otabek phone was tossed back to him, fully charged. “Yeah, and this is what I did for you. Its allowed. You know have social media, which you should have had anyway since you’re sponsored, right? Well, it's their fault for not realizing you're from the dark ages. You have Instagram, facebook, and twitter. Make sure you update them every now and then, or ask your roommate to do it.”

Otabek was staring at the screen, his frown getting deeper and deeper. “What...where did you get these photos?”

“Off your mom's computer.”

“I’m topless here! This was last year!”

“Your mom has a lot of photos dude.”

Otabek could feel his heartbeat rising and went to soothe it. And here he thought that Yuri was frustrating.

“At least Yuri tells me what he’s going to do before he does it.” Otabek grumbled, taking his phone back to his locker and slamming the door.

“Whose Yuri?”

Otabek started. “Um...it’s what Vonya tells me to call him. Around other...humans. This whole thing is so weird.”

“Huh. I guess that used to be his name then.” Bill mused then stood abruptly. “Ok, I've done my thing. Cheers.”

“His name? What do you mean?” Otabek asked quickly darting forward. Bill paused his walk.

“You know, our human names. Before we became the Lords.” Bill clarified and popped another gum bubble.

“You were human?” 

Bill shrugged. “Yeah. Once. My name was Bill. Now it’s Bill.  _ I _ chose that by the way.” he said the last, like it was a clever joke.

“But I thought that you guys were like, personifications. Just, concepts.”

“We are.” Bill stated. They stared at each other.

“But you were human.”

“Yeah, we all were at some point or another before taking up the chance. I’m the youngest and the first though. Hashtag original.”

“The first...what?”

“You say that a lot.” bill said. “I'm the only Bill so far. I mean, technology was kind of sleepy until a few hundred years ago, and the computers exploded now here I am.”

Otabek couldn't unravel the directly impersonal way Bill spoke but before he could ask further, the technology god glance at his watch, a huge, ungainly metal contraption. 

“Ah shit. Gotta go crash a server.”

And he was gone.

“What the fuck?” Otabek whimpered to himself in an empty room.

 

-8-

 

When Otabek got back to the room, he heard a murmuring coming through the door before unlocking it. Yuuri sat on the bed, legs crossed and laptop open, alighting his face as he spoke in rapid Japanese. He waved Otabek over and took the headphones off for a moment.

“Come meet my parents.” he gushed, then turned the laptop so Otabek could see himself in the return camera. On the main screen were two round-faced parental looking people. Yuuri was saying something Japanese while holding onto his shoulder, forcing him to bend at an odd angle.

“Otabek.” Yuuri said to them, “ Oh. Ta. Bek! Say hi,” Yuuri hissed at him. 

Otabek waved. The woman blinked then directed something at Yuuri, making him smile into his hand.

“They’re asking why you're angry,” he explained.

“I'm not?” Otabek answered him, confused.

“It's just his face mom,” Yuuri said in English, pushing Otabek away, who went gratefully. He hadn't been on form today, after the visit from the god of tech, and his phone glared at him through several layers of cloth, dirty kit, and polyester, demanding he earn his place with social media and the use thereof. Instead, he kicked the entire bag under his bed and collapsed on top of it, face down.

He refused, flat-out refused, to think of Yuri.  _ Vonya _ , not Yuri. 

But his dreams didn't care for resolutions made in a conscious brain and Otabek woke up sticky, viciously embarrassed, and angry with himself.

Human. They were human once? What did that even mean?

The next day, after hunting through the list of options, he signed up for a small course in Mythological studies. Just because.

 

-8- 

 

Very pale but not quite blonde hair, unnaturally green eyes, a sharp line to the mouth that wasn’t quite friendly, more prone to frown than smile.

These were the things Otabek couldn’t quite forget. Though months had gone by without seeing Vonya at all, and the mark was clear but benign, he managed to almost forget that he was in some sort of esoteric magical contract with an anthropomorphic personification and get on with his life.

But the memories were there, unshakable and leaking out of his subconscious, to the point that he found himself developing a type, in spite of his and Yuuri’s resolution to avoid dating. But hooking up, that was allowed. Heavens yes it was.

Blonde, for sure. Green eyes were a plus, a snarky attitude to boot. Tall willowy guys with dirty grins, girls with long hair that fell past their shoulders and bright eyes. It was only when one day he found his gaze roving idly over his language professor, whose blonde hair was tied in a tidy plait all the way down her back, that he saw the trend. Sitting straight in his seat, knocking his pencil case and coffee cup over the side of the desk, he swore, not quite to himself. When he realized he’d brought the attention of the lecture room onto him he blushed hard enough that his ears didn’t stop burning until an hour later.

So when he was invited to a mixer, and feeling the not totally unfamiliar itch behind his belly button that came when his thought lingered on the Lord of War too much, he deliberately stayed away from anyone that reminded him of Vonya, which ruled out guys, blondes, and dirty grins. In spite of narrowing his search window by a fair amount, he still found himself making nice with a sweet, curvy brunette with the sweetest laugh and a very nice pair of legs. Her mouth was nice too, full and tasting of dusty cherry chapstick when they kissed.

She laid a hand against his chest and looked up at him through dark lashes, twinkling and slightly tipsy. “Wanna find a room?”

Vonya had not been wrong about Otabek’s virginity. He was most definitely not deflowered, and it was absolutely by choice. It wasn’t so much the stricture of his parents Christian teaching as it was that in some subconscious, nonetheless very inarguable way, he felt that his mother would very disappointed in him if he threw it away as casually as others in his peer group seemed to.  Not that he would ever tell her.  _ Ever _ . But such is the way of the good sons and daughters who only want to please their parents.

He didn’t  _ deify _ it, turn into some holy ideal. But after his own private reflection, he had decided he wouldn’t be swiping that card until he felt that it was right. He couldn’t define what ‘right’ was. If someone asked him he would’ve blushed and changed the subject. He thought love should have something to do with it. But since he’d neither been ‘in love’ or ‘right’ with any of his partners, the deed had remained undone, the seal unbroken.

Though his partners hadn’t really understood why or appreciated his choice.  It was as if his looks and body demanded that he be promiscuous. More than one of his exes had  _ become _ exes because they couldn’t  come to terms with the minimally worded explanations.

But this didn’t mean Otabek wasn’t up for other stuff. He was only human after all. So when the pretty brunette kneeled between his legs and started unbuckling his belt, he relaxed and let her, because they were both tipsy enough to feel warm, and she was cute and he was feeling horny. He’d never actually gotten a blow job before, though he’d given a few and was looking forward to the experience. He was only half hard by the time she got his pants off, but wasn’t put off. She rested the head of her tongue and sucked and pumped until he was at full mast, and huffing or breath. Then she looked up at him, and he stilled. The look in her eyes wasn’t cute anymore, but more along the lines of ‘filthy porn’ and she grinned.

“Nice size there,” she purred and she stroked him and suddenly Otabek’s mind flashed the image of green eyes and straight blonde hair. he almost said something but it turned into a groan when she wrapped half his length in her mouth, her tongue working hard and saliva beginning to coat the edge of her lips.

It looked like a porno, but didn’t feel like one. It was messy and not at all like how he imagined such a thing would be. But the basics were there and soon he was coming. She covered the tip as he stifled a cry, catching the muck in her hands and leaning out of the way, in case there was collateral damage. When he was soft again, she wobbled to her feet and gave him a quick kiss, hands closed.

“I’m gonna wash this off and then maybe round two?” she whispered in what he supposed was a sultry way, but Otabek only nodded as she left. She was nice, her hips swayed beautifully, but he couldn’t help but feel underwhelmed by the whole experience. Maybe porn just made it look like fun.

“I can’t believe you.”

As the door closed behind the girl, Vonya was there, one knee bent, foot kicked against the wall, hand in pockets, half on his hair cornrowed against his head and looking offended.

“Yuri,” Otabek said, the name coming out like a sigh. Then he realized that firstly he’d said the wrong name, and secondly, he sounded just like a boy after a lover and blushed. Vonya’s already stormy face grew darker.

“Idiot,” he hissed. “Not only do you give your first blowjob away to some college freshman as idiotic as you, but you do it while thinking of me. And my  _ name _ ,” he continued, starting to stalk forward, “is not  _ Yuri _ .”

“I’m sorry,” Otabek said, but he couldn’t muster the wherewithal to actually sound very sorry. “I’m a bit drunk.”

“You can't use that as an excuse for everything,” Vonya said, coming to a stop a hands length away from Otabek’s knees.

“I’m sorry.”

“Shut the fuck up,” Vonya spat back, looking every bit like an angry spitfire of a boy just then, and Otabek drank in the sight like a dying man. The cornrows were perfectly done, tight against his scalp, while the other side hung long and luxuriant over his left shoulder. His eyes were rimmed in dark makeup, and even in the dim light of the dorm room, hey made the sparkling green even more clear.

“You’re just…” Otabek managed to stop himself and rubbed his face. “You’re right, I’m not, that wasn’t-“

“Are you always this eloquent with your pants down?”

Otabek suddenly realized he was still half naked and dipped down fast to drag his trousers back up, but was stopped when Vonya’s hands rested firmly on his bare knees. He looked up in eyes glittering with mischief and malice.

“Need help with that?” Vonya asked and Otabek felt a warm finger stroke along the length of his already-hard-again cock. “Wow, you really could’ve gone for round two. Kudos for that youthful stamina.”

The way Vonya pushed between his thighs and knelt was not like the pretty brunette. It was like comparing a kitten to a tiger, one had all the potential and the other had all the experience. The was a magnetism to the Lord’s mouth, because Otabek didn’t even pause for a second when Vonya tilted his head up, lips parted and inviting. But it was over too soon, and Vonya pulled away.

“I’m going to show you what real head is supposed to feel like,” he promised seriously before bowing his head and sliding his tongue along the top of Otabek’s cock, making him shudder.

“Hot,” he managed. Everything about Vonya was heat: his hands, his skin, his eyes, his mouth…oh god…

Vonya popped off for a moment and smirked. “That was a very lady like little moan there.”

“Shut up.” Otabek tried but it was so weak even he didn’t believe it. Vonya descended again and Otabek just breathed through it. It was like being swallowed by a furnace, except instead of burning, the heat just travelled. Down his erection, into his scrotum and through his thighs. Into his tensed abdominals, up chest and neck until all he could feel was bare, burned.

Vonya knew what he was doing, licking Otabek to the edge of climax then releasing him just a little, only to catch him again and suck him closer once more. His hands, rough-dedged and calloused, slid tightly along his inner thighs, pressing into the sinew and letting go in rhythm. Then he loosened his jaw and let Otabek’s entire slickened erection push into his mouth and throat, humming, eyes closed and looking like a fallen angel around his cock.

“…god.” Otabek whispered. “Please….”

Vonya hummed again, and worked his throat, bobbing his head as if nodding and Otabek felt the dam break and he spilled into the white heat, crying out and grabbing the god by his hair. It took some moments before Otabek could hear sound again, and when he did, it was the wheezed breathes he made. Through misty eyes he saw Vonya wipe at his mouth, and gently disentangle Otabek’s fingers from his hair.

“How convenient that I don’t need to breathe,” he muttered a little sourly.

Otabek closed his eyes for a second, resting his head on his hands and feeling lightheaded. “Sorry. I’ve never…”

“Of course you haven’t,” Vonya said. “That was the point.”

“Did you at least…” Otabek said, letting his one hand slide to touch Vonya’s shoulder, and met with soft tanned leather of his jacket. “I mean, did you enjoy that…?”

Vonya blinked at him, slow, like a cat. Then he pulled himself closer and placed a kiss on Otabek’s mouth that wasn’t like the others. The other were the Lord taking kisses, but this was…something given. Mouth closed, lips soft, and once again Otabek thought “ _ Yuri _ .”

Then the god pulled away as if yanked by some invisible string, eyes narrowed and angry, before vanishing altogether, leaving behind the scent of gunpowder and flowers.

Otabek stared at the space, still replete, shaking a little.

He doorknob rattled.

“Hey!” a woman’s voice called. “Hey, you still in there? Did you lock me out?”

When Otabek didn’t answer, he heard a muttered “Asshole.” And steps fading away. The muted music from the part was still going, but Otabek was abruptly done with the evening.


	10. 9.5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A little finishing touch to the previous chapter.

A week after The World’s Most Unforgettable Blowjob, Even If You Try You Can’t SO Don’t Bother as told by Otabek Altin, and after a week of waking up with semi-stiffies, real stiffies and of course, stickies, Otabek Was feeling irate and worn down. He wondered if he was allowed to feel that way about a god. ‘He never called me back, sonofabitch,’ seemed a little childish.

But why? Why the fuck would he even do that? Why did it matter if Otabek had a thousand mediocre blowjobs? Yuri was obviously perfectly capable of ignoring him because Otabek hadn't heard or seen a  whiff of the lord since no matter how many hot dreams he had. It was already past embarrassing now, into mortifying, that his attempts to hide his morning results from his roommate hadn't worked. Yuuri was too polite to say anything, but he wasn't too polite to snicker just as Otabek left the room to find a shower.

That morning, he’d left with “You need to get laid.” following him out the door. Two girls walking past caught it, and Otabek shocked face, before bursting into huge giggles and walking away.

It had set the tone for the day.

A series of unfortunate and clumsy events had followed him throughout the day and even into practice, where he had literally tripped over his own shoelace. He might have imagined the shock of blonde hair watching from behind the net. He got sent home early, told to get some sleep and the stern admonition to get his head on straight. Otabek Altin was trudging back to his room at days end, feeling harassed, flat and cursing gods under his breath.

As he approached room 351, he heard the low murmur of Yuuri’s voice and figured it was another call to the parents, as Yuuri did once a week or so. He tried to be quiet as he unlocked the door, not really keen on greeting them again and explain why he wasn't actually frowning or angry, it was just the face God gave him. His huge sigh caught in his throat when he stepped in, and his bag slumped to the floor, forgotten.

Yuuri's eyes were wide and just as, if not more, shocked.

“Shit,” he said, swinging his body around, the purple dildo sliding out of his ass as he slammed the keys on the laptop keyboard, making the screen go dark. It plunged the room into semi-darkness, but for the red light that glowed bright and dim at intervals, from its positions on Yuuri’s desk.

Ore silence, to the rhythm of a glowing ember of light, while Otabek and Yuuri stared, speechless at one another. Then, as if pulled downwards, Otabek’s eyes dropped to first the slicked, shiny purple dildo now abandoned between Yuuri’s legs, and then to Yuuri’s very obvious, very clean shaven erection.

“Shit!” Yuuri exploded, before snatching up a robe from the floor, dragging it on as he pelted out the door. Otabek let him, still frozen for another ten minutes solid.

 

-8-

 

_ “Well, now that is very interesting.” Eros purred in Vonya’s ear, like a cat with the cream. _

_ “Fuck off hag.” _

_ “The realm of sexual pleasure is mine, as you know.” she continued. Both lords were in the in-between, mere presence and intent. _

_ “Don't you have places to be? Inside people for example.” _

_ “I am in those places.” she replied with a voice like the throaty moan of a whore, the breathless cry of a boy’s first orgasm. _

_ “Anywhere but here, if I wasn't being clear.” _

_ “But why, oh Lord of War. Did you enjoy it?” _

_ Had he? Vonya hadn't recalled the visceral, filthy feeling of being human in a long while. The way a body sweat, stank and yearned for more. _

_ Had he enjoyed it? No. yes. His body had not reacted, the temporary shell he utilised sometimes. His body was told to perform a function, it recalled breathing and loss, but ultimately, it was a tool. _

_ But he had enjoyed enjoyment. The tick up rhythm of Otabek’s heart, the way his aura pulsed with an uneven beat at the sight of him, the pretty little sounds that escaped his throat. He enjoyed knowing that those were his. Only his. _

_ Which begged the question;  _ **_why_ ** _ did he enjoy it? Why did he still think of it now? Why did he crave the filth and decay of humanity even more? _

_ Why did Otabek Altin glow? _

_ “Because he’s **mine**.” was all he offered before leaving the inbetween. _


	11. 11

#  _ Moscow, 1763 _

  
  


_ The trousers chafed, his feet swam in boots too large for him and the coat felt far heavier than something made of mere fabric should. His eyes blinked back at him from the stained mirror, and even his face screamed his unwillingness. His father’s blonde head came into view, expression stern. _ _   
_ _ “The shoes are too big.” Yuri offered in a small voice. _ _   
_ _ “Then go back and find a better size.” His father replied gruffly. _ _   
_ _ “This is the smallest they have.” _ _   
_ _ Yuri didn’t miss the sharp look angled at him in the mirror’s reflection and ducked his head to hide his petulant expression. But his father saw it anyway. _ _   
_ _ “Maybe the war will make you a man, Yurachka.” _ _   
_ _ “You mean like Anton and Dimitri.” Yuri replied sullenly. _ _   
_ _ “They didn’t need a war in order to become men.” _ _   
_ _ He listened as his afters step faded away, fuming silently, glaring a hole into the chipped tiling of the tailor’s shop floor. _ _   
_ _ I can make sure you never see the battlefield. _ _   
_ __ The words were a repeat of those he’d heard the night before, but they felt almost spoken into his mind. He looked around suddenly tense, but saw only the dusty, gloomy interior of the change room.

_   
_ _ -8- _

_   
_ _ Yuri was accustomed to paying prices. _ _   
_ __ As most children are, Yuri too was raised on fables and tales of fantastical adventure, where the hero is offered a gift of some kind, a wish or a boon from some magical sort of traveler in disguise, in return for payment of one kind of another.  These kinds of stories are important. They teach people that there is nothing in your life that you might want, that will be given to you for nothing.

_   
_ _ Not. One. Thing. _

_   
_ _ Oh yes, Yuri was used to paying prices. In return for his dedicating himself to the garden work. He was allowed to attend ballet lessons. IN return for his doing well in his letters, he was allowed to see his first recital. IN return for his silence and taking the blame for the cracking of one precious blue porcelain on his mother’s setee, he earned his brothers pocket change, which in turn Bought him his first pair of dance shoes. _ _   
_ _ In return for saying nothing when his father made passing comments about his girlish appearance, his unnatural want to be a dancer, he was allowed to continue his lessons. In return for bloodied feet and swollen toe joints, he perfect a perfect point arabesque, which even some of the girls couldn’t manage. IN return for pain, he earned brilliance. _ _   
_ __ But as in the stories, and so very often that Yuri might have known better if not for the cloudy, bitter fog of desperation, some prices are much, much higher than the wish granted.

_   
_ _ -8- _

_   
_ _ He didn’t even have to look for the man, Yuri found him smoking once more, leaning against the back wall of the theatre like he was keeping it up with his shoulders alone. Again, hunkered down in his coat, under his hat, looking even more like a criminal than the night before. _ _   
_ _ “Hmm?” Vonya asked, when Yuri’s feet and scuffed slush from the cobbles and stopped. _ _   
_ _ “..How?” Yuri asked eventually. “How can I…?” _ _   
_ _ “Keep dancing?” _ _   
_ _ “Yes.” _ _   
_ _ The smile was completely absent of things normally expected from a smile. There was no kindness, amusement, friendliness there. It had no right to be out in daylight. And yet it was there, creeping across Vonya’s face. _ _   
_ __ “We need to make a deal.”   
  


**Present Day**

 

It was another hour or so before a tentative knock came and Otabek shot off his bed, not having been anywhere close to sleeping. The room was more or less back to normal, normal light on, red light off, though Otabek hadn't been brave enough to do more than toss a blanket over the content of Yuuri’s bed.

“Come in…” he said hesitantly. 

Yuuri snuck in, looking at the floor and with a general air of dejection that was so completely out of character for the ebullient little aisan that Otabek immediately felt shitty.

“Hey, it’s-”

“I can explain-”

They both started at once, and relapsed into silence. Yuuri still stood in the open doorway, looking unsure, chewing his lip, pink and black toenails curling into the tile.

“Yuuri. Just come in, ok?”

He did and Otabek found themselves sitting across from each other, unable to meet eyes, both as awkward as the other. It was rare for Otabek to find himself in a situation where the other party was as mortified as he was, and he was drawing a complete social blank.

“So...” he eventually said into the silence.

“I'm going to have to explain,” Yuuri said, as much to himself as Otabek.

“You don't have to.”

“I want to!”

Silence.

“Ok,” Otabek swallowed.

Yuuri shifted pulling his robe tighter around himself. “It’s just, you're my roommate and my friend, and I guess now that you’ve seen it… I'd rather you had the right idea than the wrong one.”

Otabek swallowed and found the tension in the room getting caught in his throat. Neither of them could manage to meet each other’s eyes.

”Yuuri, if you don't want to tell me, its ok. Whatever it is. I'm not, like, judging you. It was just a surprise…”

“No kidding,” Yuuri said wryly, finally darting a look at him. Otabek swallowed again, placing his hands firmly on his knees. 

“I mean, a lot of people have long distance relationships and do stuff… Not that I have, but I know it happens-”

“Wait - what?” Yuuri interrupted, head jerking up. “No, it's not a  _ boyfriend. _ ”

“Uh, sex friend?” Otabek tried.

Yuuri watched him, eyes troubled then sighed. “You know when I said I was in service industry?”

“...Uh huh.”

“And do you know what live internet porn is?”

“Yeah.”

Yuuri held up two fingers on each hand, and then brought them slowly together, before pointing them at himself. “Thats me. That's what I do.”

Otabek could feels the cogs in his brain turning but it hadn't quite processed yet. “So… That was… live.”

“Yes.”

“Someone was watching you…”

“Yes.”

“Oh.”

“Yes.”

Silence.

“If you want to get another roommate now, I understand,” Yuuri eventually said in a small voice. “I totally agree this goes above and beyond tolerance. Just, please don't report me, I would  _ absolutely _ lose my scholarship-”

“Um, wait.”

“It's just that there is no way I could afford my textbooks or even eat if I didn't have a job and honestly, I'm pretty good at it-” Yuuri went on, the tone of his voice escalating.

“Hold on,” Otabek said firmly, holding up a hand. “Ok, questions.”

Ok,” Yuuri nodded, gulping.

“Are you...for hire?”

“No!” Yuuri said half standing up. “No, I'm not a prostitute, I don't get paid to have sex with people. I get paid to, um, have sex with...toys. On camera.”

“Toys?” Otabek’s voice was strangled.

“Um, yes.”

To Otabek’s fascinated horror, a wide, grey plastic box was pulled out from under the bed, and opened shyly. At that moment, all Otabek could process was a lot of bright fluorescent silicone.

“You can close it,” he said and Yuuri did. “Ok, so, you have sex with, uh, toys...for a job?”

“Yeah,” Yuuri confirmed, his toes curling again. “It started in high school, kinda. I had this Tumblr account, and I'd been playing with toys for a while and I just..started making little short videos of myself? Never my face, but playing with dildos and vibrators and stuff. I got a following after a while, and requests. And eventually one of them said he would pay for a new toy I wanted if he could watch me use it and I figured, ‘why not?’. It sort of snowballed from there. Now I work for a site where people can pay for videos, toys or live interaction-”

“Ok!” Otabek blurted out, on the verge of mental short-circuiting. “Thats enough. I get it.”

“Sorry.”

“It's fine.”

Yuuri half smiled at him, sad. “It's not though, is it?”

Otabek blinked at the wall behind Yuuri’s head. “Uh, I just need some time.”

Yuuri nodded his head again, looking resigned. “Yeah, of course.”

“Just...some time.” Otabek said, getting up and walking out without another word.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Guess I'll be updating those tags now.
> 
> Playlist here: https://www.youtube.com/playlist?list=PL9DX92woS8nDFULzjQ3qjKr8t_HtXDR5F


	12. 12

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Things are resolved between Yuuri and Otabek,  
> and Otabek gets nosey.

“Ok!”

Otabek had burst into the room, leaned against the now slammed door, determined to say all the words he had lined up before he lost his nerve. Yuuri looked like a bunny in the headlights, frozen which half a snickers on the way to his mouth.

“Ok?”

“Ok,” Otabek repeated. “I don’t mind that you’re… what you do. I’ve always tried to be nonjudgmental of others and honestly, you’re a good guy and if that’s what’s going on, it’s alright by me.”

Yuuri blinked. “Are you serious?”

“As a cold.”

There was a brief silence, broken by a snort from the small Asian on the bed. “Um, colds aren’t serious. They’re like, barely even mediocre.”

“You know what I mean,” Otabek responded tiredly, rubbing his face as he went to fold himself onto his bed. “Look, honestly? This has been a shitty day, preceded by a shitty week. I’m tired, my eyes are scratchy and my brain is doing that sort of standby thing whenever I try to think. My initial reaction is just: It’s ok. Youre ok, I’m ok. We’re ok.”

Yuuri put the bar of Snickers down. “Ok.”

“But we need some rules.”

Yuuri nodded immediately. “Yes.”

“Like, a schedule may be.”

Yuuri collapsed his face into his hands. “Oh god, Otabek I am so mortified. I usually time it with your practices, but today you were early-”

“Yeah, again, the shitty day.”

Yuuri peeked between his fingers. “Sorry to add to it. I’m sure it’s not what you were thinking of when you tell people about your roommate.”

“Well, no,” Otabek said, with a small smile. “But… I don't know. Are you ok? Is this like, a cry for help?”

Yuuri shook his head, but he was smiling. “No. It’s a weird job choice but I make a decent salary from it, and honestly, I’ve always liked toys. Might as well get paid for it, right?”

“Hmm.”

“Look if you’re uncomfortable…”

“No,” Otabek paused. “Well, not like that. Um, I mean, I have the good Christian boy image perfected for my mom, but I’ve looked at stuff-”

“I’m sure.” 

“Shut up.”

Yuuri laughed again, chest expanding and relieved. “I’m just so glad you’re not freaking out.”

“I did that outside.” Otabek smiled wryly.

“I mean, that you’re not Bible bashing me right now, or reporting me.”

“I wouldn’t,” Otabek replied honestly. He knew what it was like to need a job, to scratch around for money under the couch cushions. He’d worked part-time jobs all through school. 

“Honestly, my life has been pretty weird lately, so this isn’t as much of a shock to me as it would have been say, 6 months ago.”

“Ok,” Yuuri said, letting the statement go, fidgeting with the corner of his bathrobe. “So… You are sure?”

“Yeah.” 

Yuuri let his face drop into his hand again, slower this time and Otabek saw the tremor. He heard Yuuri whisper slowly. “Ok, I’m really glad.”

It took a moment for Otabek to realize that Yuri was crying and he was awkward all over again. Then he sucked it up and retrieved the half-eaten Snickers from the table, returning it to its owner.

“Hey, it’s gonna be fine. I’m not going to rat you out or cut your hair off in your sleep.”

Yuuri offered a weak laugh but took the bar, nibbling at a corner. “Thanks.”

“Don’t mention it.”

Otabek went to retrieve his gym bag from where it had landed on the floor, and started his usual unpacking and distributing of dirty laundry, books and leftover snacks.

“Actually, I think it’s kind of admirable,” he said, keeping his back to Yuuri.

“Excuse me?” Yuuri blurted out.

“Well, I mean, you’re obviously comfortable with yourself. And your body. I wish I was more like that. Not to,” he waved a hand vaguely, “that extent, ha. But, I dunno. More myself.”

“Otabek,” Yuuri started, “you're ridiculous.”

“I’m not lying,” Otabek replied, echoing Yuuri’s chuckle. “I figured out I liked boys and girls just fine, and I figured out how to hide it from my parents.”

“What teenager doesn’t.”

“Exactly. But I’ve never really gone very far. With anyone. Like, first base, second base, that kind of thing... But yeah, I just feel like it’s precious. I guess I am a prude like you said.”

Otabek had stripped himself down to his pants but no further, grabbing his towel before smiling shyly at Yuuri.

Who was suddenly standing almost right next to him and Otabek nearly tripped going backward.

“Otabek, you know I’m a virgin right? I’ve never slept with anyone.”

Otabek blinked. “You haven’t?”

“No.”

“Sorry I assumed…”

“Because I’m a cam boy I have a high sex drive?”

“Actually I was going to say that most twenty-year-olds have slept with at least one person.”

Yuuri snickered. “We’re like unicorns, always hiding in plain sight.”

“Unicorns hide in plain sight?”

Yuuri stepped away, going to find his laptop and opening it as he spoke. “I came close once, with a girl I knew growing up. But it didn’t work out,”  Yuuri reminisced. “And honestly, the thought of just finding some random person… Maybe it's because of my job, and all the pervs watching me, but I keep thinking about secrets. How many people watch what I do? Would they be honest with me if they were into that? Would someone be able to accept me? Could I lie about it? It’s just too complicated to think about, on top of college. So, no, I haven’t swiped my v-card either.”

Otabek let out a breath he didn’t realize he’d been holding. “So, we’re both unicorns then?”

Yuuri laughed generously. “I guess. Now please go shower, you reek.”

“That’s the plan,” Otabek said, taking the escape even as he grinned.

 

-8-

 

Mythologies, Facts and Fables 101 was not as informative as Otabek had hoped it would be.

He tapped his frustration in a tattoo on his desk while listening to the professor go on about how everyone had completely missed the point of the assignment and did anyone even listen in this class, and did anyone even read the text… Otabek withheld his sigh and slumped a little further into his seat in the back. When a girl sitting a few seats over glanced his way and raised an arched brow, looking at his finger, he stopped.

 

Hanging around after class wasn't difficult because it was small and people were keen to leave quickly. The professor, a man in his mid-forties and a permanently scruffy look, barely spared him a second look when he became aware of Otabek’s hovering presence.

“No extensions, and that's the last time I'm saying it,” the professor said on an exhale, pushing the words out from his chest.

“I don't want an extension. I have a question.”

“All the information you need is on the layout sheet I gave you. If you've lost it, then ask a classmate.”

“No, about something else.”

Otabek was not unfamiliar with dealing with ornery teachers whose vocation was most definitely not teaching.  He stood his ground, kept his face neutral and waited until the man realized he wasn't going anywhere. He was treated to an unimpressed expression delivered over glasses and a heavy sigh.

“What is it then. I have to be somewhere.”

“I wanted to know if there is any mythology behind the Olympic emblem?”

Another unimpressed look which Otabek didn’t react to.

“Are you serious?”

“I figured you would know if there was.”

“There isn't,” his professor answered in a way that sounded like he was refraining from calling him  ‘idiot’. “It's just an emblem, symbolizing 5 different countries when the Olympics started. A rather paltry attempt at inclusion, but everyone got wet over it so who cares now. If that's all…”

“So there's nothing?”

The professor snapped his messenger bag closed. “Why do you care? I'm really not interested in hedgerow stories and births of new religions if that's what you're aiming for.”

“Not at all. A friend mentioned something about it and I was interested, that's all.”

“Well, you might have more luck in the library then. What else would they represent? It's an international sporting event. It's fairly obvious.”

Otabek shifted onto his other foot but made sure to keep eye contact. “Well, I know that a lot of modern symbols and emblems are taken from pagan ones or other cultures. Like the swastika. What if the colors meant something else at one time, or maybe the use of circles is significant somehow.”

This time, he could see the spark of interest in the lecturer’s eye, but it was quickly smothered by his generally jaded attitude.

“Like I said, try the library. Maybe under Mesolithic or Neolithic era symbolism. Geometric designs were important then. Let me know if you find anything.”

“Sure,” Otabek replied, but it was to the professor’s back. He shrugged slightly and left the empty room.

 

-8-

 

Surprisingly, with the help of a cute and very obliging student librarian, he thought he may have found something useful in just under two days.

Well, semi-useful.

He was in the rightish section for sure. He was in a permission-based entrance part of the extensive library, wearing latex gloves and forbidden to touch any of the books with his bare skin. Under the guise of researching a term paper, he strolled slowly through the brightly lit shelves, full of books deemed too valuable, old or decrepit to be in public hands. There were several whose leather spines looked worse for wear, and then some whose spines were pristine, brand new; those whose covers were too damaged, whose stitching had come loose and needed rethreading. He tilted his head so he could read sideways, looking for something, anything that might hit a spark of recognition, or maybe even something more ethereal. 

Wishing to avoid the glass covered boxes, for now, he managed a small collection to take back to a clean table in the sterile-feeling of the room. Clearly, this area was not often explored; the tables looked new, unblemished.

 

“Facts and figures in history… Music of the Spheres...Symbology: Music and color spectrums…” Otabek gnawed at the edge of his thumbnail, turning pages carefully. he stopped at a leather-bound volume, which was not a book, but rather a collection of academic journals written by one Rupert Lucius Spoon.  At the very worst, the language was easier to read. But as he browsed through the titles, he curiosity kicked up and he began paying more attention.

Sacred geometry and its use in cultural art felt like he was getting warmer...

 

“ _ The mythography of shape is congruent too...and not unusual in ancient Polynesian art, as well as Mesopotamia _ …” Otabek read allowed under his breath, a long since cemented habit done when he was really trying to remember something. His eyes devoured words, forcing his brain to make sense of them until they snagged.

 

“T _ he gods, being elliptical and unending beings, are represented by circles, and circles are considered either divine or symbols of divinity. Thus, circles are incorporated into several aboriginal arts; cave painting, tattoos, carvings on totems and musical instruments. The circle is considered both terrible and perfect because it cannot end. The Klahlian Culture in South Guinea said that only circle knows where its tail is.  Some even said that the tail was hidden away, though it's not certain whether this is said in a humorous way or not _ .”

 

Otabek skimmed over a few paragraphs until finding what looked right.

“Ahem.”

Otabek looked up, realized he was bent almost nose to book. The older, not so cute librarian lady gave him an odd look.

“The library will close in an hour,” she said disapprovingly as if his eyes could ruin the very words printed.

“Alright, I'll be out before then.”

“You can't take these books out you know.”

“I know.”

Some more disapproving glaring before she left and Otabek went back to the spot where his purple coated finger had stopped.

 

“ _ Some say that though gods are represented by the sacred circle, as is echoed in so many rituals and visual religious symbols, there are some that say there are five gods in particular who are represented by 5 specific circles. These are deemed holier, more untouchable, more timeless than others, having existed before time was time and will continue to do so when all bones are dust, as they do not know death. This is not unlike the legend of the alpha god who sacrifices his son for the sake humans, being echoed across many religions and cultures. So, in several cultures, there is the expression that there are five infinite needs or concepts, inalienable from humans as they are from the gods that embody them. This seems a little open to interpretation as I was unable to get a clear answer to how endless gods could be endless if they were the personification of human creation. But it seemed left to me to believe it or not _ .”

 

“Hey.”

Otabek stopped again, squinting up then tried to clear his face. It was the cute one. “Hey.”

She pushed a blonde lock behind her ear, glancing over his collection. “Wow, heavy reading. For a project?”

“Uh, yeah.”

“No one really comes down here, but some of the illustrations are really beautiful, in the old books. Like the zoology stuff. The animals look completely weird.”

“Oh yeah?”

“Yeah.”

There was a beat of awkward silence while Otabek tried to disentangle his thoughts from gods and circles, but the cute girl went on. “Um, I get off when we close though.”

“Oh, that's great. You can get an early night at least.” Otabek replied, still concentrating on holding his fingers in the right place. She blinked at him.

“Um, yeah, I guess. Its nice to...go home early.”

“I'll be done soon too.”

“Great.”

“Great.”

The cute girl batted her eyelashes some more while Otabek watched dumbly before shaking her head and hurrying off. Otabek spared her a very brief look before going back to his reading.

 

_ “It seemed that the five holier gods were not above others, but separate, more responsible for the continuation of human life than others. Or rather, in charge of the balance of life. These had several names in different languages but I have translated as best I can here: _

_ The god of Trade and Value _

_ The god of Ambition and Enterprise _

_ The god of Pleasured Flesh _

_ The god of  War _

_ The god of Man’s Own Face (this is a very vague translation) _

 

_ These are very strange concepts to latch on to my mind, though they make sense in their own way. The god of trade was considered to have many faces, some good, some evil but always clever and sly. It is no surprise that there was a god of lust, this much even I can admit, that humans are driven by their genitalia. When I asked for a description of the Warrior God, however, the conversation turned slippery and hesitant. It seemed to speak of him or her was not good fortune, evil perhaps sacrilegious-” _

 

“Oh, my darling boy you really aren't going to stop are you?”

 

This time, the entire text was taken from his hands. He gripped for a moment before remembering their fragility then let go. Holding it was now a silver-haired man, blue eyes twinkling, his grey suit pressed so solidly it looked like the edges could cut.

 

“I tried fear of authority, I tried luring you with a pretty face, but you are one dogged little individual hmm?”

 

Otabek sat back in his chair, slowly. 

 

“Mammon?”

“Ah! He remembers me.” Mammon replied smiling. The hand which held the book of compiled articles did a funny little twist and were suddenly gone, like a coin trick.

“No!”

“Yes, I'm afraid,” Mammon replied, pulling out a chair that wasn't there a second before and making himself comfortable. Legs crossed, hands interlinked across his knee, perfectly Callaghan's pointing at the ceiling like they'd just been buffed. The only non-stylised aspect of Mammon’s appearance was his hair, a short cut that fell over one eye, but even that looked beautiful, a pretty touch of aberration that made the overall image even more perfect.

This time, the entire text was taken from his hands. He gripped for a moment before remembering their fragility then let go. Holding it was now a silver-haired man, blue eyes twinkling, his grey suit pressed so solidly it looked like the edges could cut.

Otabek was not immune to it. Not even close. Looking at Mammon was like looking at a work of art.

"Hmm, you shouldn't do that, Sweetheart, not that I'm not flattered," Mammon mused, turning his head and fixing him with a clear blue eye.

Otabek startled. "I didn't even realize I was doing it. sorry."

"Don't apologize to me. Like I said,  I'm absolutely flattered, but it's not fair."

That comment helped Otabek shake off a little more of the glamour he felt he was under. "Tell me about it."

"Hmm?"

Otabek felt suddenly uncertain, off-kilter. He was talking to one of the gods he'd been so curious about. while he had the inkling that they spoke to one another, weren't disparate loners, he didn't know exactly how much.

"Let me guess, Vonya likes to show up whenever the inclination takes him, and leave you with an aftermath of blue balls?"

Otabek's jaw snapped shut and his ears got hot, making Mammon snigger, a singularly unattractive sound from such an attractive man.

"As if your attraction to him is a secret. Your aura literally blows up whenever you think about him, very pretty light show. And Eros knows everything and loves to talk."

His ears got hotter, not that Mammon seemed to care in the least.

"In any case, your choice of reading material concerns me. Have your questions? Just ask."

Otabek's jaw finally unglued, and he cleared his throat. "I've tried. Talking to Bill is like trying to talk to a teenager with a short attention span, and I'm pretty sure Yuri enjoys being unhelpful,” he said, surly.

Mammon's head tilted, revealing both eyes. "Yuri?"

"Uh...Vonya. I meant Vonya."

"Of course you did," Mammon affirmed in a way that said he didn't believe Otabek for a second. "While I admire your perseverance, it's not always good to delve too deeply into these things. The devil is where you look for him, after all."

"I'm not looking for the devil. I just wanted to know more."

"Why?"

"I-" Otabek stammered, suddenly unsure. He wasn't sure why to be truthful. It simply felt wrong not to know more about...Vonya. Yuri. Vonya.

"It's interesting."

"Most of our sacrifices just accept and move on. But then again I suppose you wouldn't have, considering your nature."

"My nature?"

"Well, a boy raised in a staunch Christian household and yet manages not to believe the general propaganda. You must have a questioning mind to start with."

"I guess." Otabek shrugged. "I think I'm definitely over the unreality of it. I mean, you exist. I've gotten my head around it. You're much more real than any god I might have met in the church on a Sunday."

"Thank you." Mammon inclined his head gracefully.

"But why are you real?" Otabek pressed. "It's amazing, and I want to to know. Bill mentioned something about you being human at one stage."

"Did he," Mammon said flatly.

"I'm guessing that maybe he shouldn't have."

Mammon shifted in his seat, uncrossing and recrossing his legs the other way round, letting his eyes rest on Otabek in an assessing way before replying.

"It's not that it's a secret. it's more like...troubling information." He said carefully. "As I said, sometimes it's not good to know more."

"Is that why you took the book I was reading?"

"Exactly right." Mammon said without a trace of shame. "Not only might you get incorrect information, but some of the things Mr. Spoon says are not very flattering."

Otabek was surprised. "What do you care if people think you're good or bad?"

Mammon seemed to turn the troublesome thing over in his mind before answering. "Not myself so much. But I wouldn't want you to get the wrong idea about Vonya. It wouldn't be fair."

"Again with being unfair," Otabek pointed out. "He doesn't seem to care about being unfair to me."

"On the contrary, Vonya is extremely aware of the balance of scales, fairness and otherwise."

"Then why is he always-” Otabek paused, thinking better of what he was about to say. “Nevermind."

"Don't be embarrassed. I suppose that's the answer you're looking for. I took the book because the way Vonya is described is not correct. And I think you should decide for yourself who Vonya really is."

"Why? I'm just a human, he's a god."

Mammon paused before answering. 

"Why indeed," he said with a small grin. "Either way, that book has now been removed from the library and its records. Too verbose anyway."

Otabek was aghast. "You can't just take a book!"

"I just have. Aren't I clever." Mammom said flatly, a hint of steel in his eyes.

Otabek rubbed his face. "You're all the same."

"Well it's as you say, you are a mere human, subject to a very brief, very frustrating existence. I am not. So, I do what I want."

"No kidding," Otabek mumbled, resigned and annoyed. He started to re-pile the books, his determination completely waned.

"Thanks for nothing," he said, turning away.

"Now-now, who you do you think it was who paid for your free accommodation?"

Otabek turned back, momentarily stalled. 

“You?”

“Precisely. We are all invested in you now.”

“Bill mentioned something like that. That you work as a team.”

“Well, ‘Team’ might be a little strong for what we are, more like a mutually beneficial business merger. But to an extent, we care for each other, look after each other's interests.”

Otabek sighed out.

“No pressure.”

Mammon smiled, looking the the world's most trustworthy salesman. “None at all.


	13. 13

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Another encounter between mofo Vonya/Yuuri and Otabek. Not enough of these.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the delay. I was agonizing over this chapter, and then tired of agonizing. So there.

Otabek returned to Mary House, feeling annoyed, a touch disconsolate, and hungry. Since he was watching the black and white floor tiles disappear under his feet, he didn't see Yuuri and nearly fell over him and someone else as he rounded the corner.

“Shit!” he exclaimed, tipping forward and balancing precariously on his toes before grabbing the wall and pushing himself back. He saw Yuuri and another pair of eyes watching him with wide eyes. “Uh, sorry.”

“And this is my roommate, Otabek Altin.” Yuuri introduced, laughing at him and looking to his partner. She looked back, smiling, and held out her hand. 

“Hi, I’m Anastasia.”

Otabek took it. “Otabek. Uh. Sorry I almost walked over you.”

“No problem.”

“Anastasia is my new buddy for tonight's class,” Yuuri explained. Otabek was still taking in the short women, pale blond hair tied back loosely, wearing the same fluorescent pink gym shorts Yuuri did, but looking a lot better in them.

“Oh? You don't usually have night class.”

“It’s a semester course. In pole dancing.”

Otabek swallowed his initial reaction not very artfully and nodded. “That should be useful.”

“Useful?” Anastasia asked, her smile remaining but turning unsure. Yuuri gave him an intense look.

“Yeah, Otabek, useful for what?”

Otabek did a quick backtrack in his mind. “I meant, uh, not that you're a pole dancer or anything-”

“But we are, tonight,” Anastasia replied, still watching him with amusement.

“I mean that pole dancers usually have a bad reputation-”

“What do you mean Otabek?” Yuuri quizzed.

Otabek was stalled, utterly stymied in the face of their earnest expressions and remained frozen until they both burst out laughing. Yuuri patted his cheek, still giggling.

“You're an asshole,” Otabek told him, shaking his head.

“Didn't I say he was the cutest?” Yuuri said, ignoring him and talking to Anastasia instead.

“He definitely is,” Anastasia agreed, and Otabek felt himself get a little warmer under her appraisal.

“Anyway, we have to go. You got practice tonight?” Yuuri asked.

“No, it was canceled. I'm just going to get food and hit the sack.” Otabek replied, edging around them.

“Have fun,” Yuuri called.

“See ya, Otabek,” Anastasia said over her shoulder, and Otabek snuck a quick glance at her bright pink behind as she sashayed away.

Well, at least there was one bright spot in the day. Even if it was pink.

 

-8-

 

The shower helped wash away the day, and Otabek was sure that food would do the rest, even though his head was still alight like a brushfire with sparking question that only produced more questions. He went to the cafeteria thoughtlessly, his actions automatic, his only effort choosing between a chicken or beef on his sandwich. The eating area wasn't quite empty, students still coming in dribs and drabs before closing time, because nothing fuels students quite like snacks, even when they're not hungry. Taking his tray to an isolated table, he slid it down and sat, then looked up into a sharp green pair of eyes.

Vonya and Otabek shared the silence for a moment before it was broken by Voya’s bored tones.

“So Mammon says you have questions.”

Otabek stuttered into life. “Hello.”

Vonya inclined his head. “You should just ask instead of reading shit you don't understand.”

“Well, it's nice to see you too,” Otabek replied, sighing. “And I have asked or tried to, every time. None of you are very helpful.”

“What do you mean, none of us? Who else have you met?” Vonya asked, sounding idly curious.

Otabek took a large bite of his sandwich and chewed with methodical slowness. Vonya watched with openly growing irritation, but he still took his time, swallowing before answering.

“It's been a rough day. Week...weeks. I'm tired, I'm frustrated, I have term papers coming out of my ears and my first really important game this weekend. Right now, I would like to take a raincheck on your usual brand of bitching, ok?”

Vonya blinked once, then a slow, bright smile bloomed on his face, changing its shape completely. “Hello, jock boy has balls.”

“Blue balls, apparently,” Otabek replied without thinking and immediately regretted it. But Vonya leaned forward, elbows on the table, and Otabek watched his lithe form, tonight clothed in a form-fitting white suit.

“Oh really?” Vonya needled, clearly amused, his smile still like a vibrant heart-line on his face. It made him look younger, more...whole.

“Um,” Otabek says, wiping his mouth and looking away. “I’m serious though. I have loads of questions, but i don't feel like playing your game tonight. And yes, I met Mammon today and Bill a few weeks ago. They’re about as easy to get along with as you are.”

Vonya watched him, gleeful, in silence for a second and Otabek took the chance to put food in his mouth so his foot wouldn't fit.

“Ok.”

Otabek raised a questioning brow, still chewing. Vonya spread his hands in a kind of surrender. 

“I’ll answer three questions. Only three. And I won't hassle you. But you're taking all the fun out of these little get-togethers.”

Otabek swallowed again. “They're only fun for you.”

“I didn’t hear you complaining when I went down on you.”

Otabek frowned and pointed a finger at the lord. “See? This is what I mean. We can't just sit and relax, I'm always on edge with you, never know if you're gonna hit me or kiss me.”

“I've never hit you.”

“You poked me though.”

“You poked the back of my throat.”

“Ok I’m done,” Otabek said, standing up, his appetite suddenly gone. He wrapped the sandwich up in a napkin, returned his tray, and walked out at a fast pace.

“Look, it's my nature. I'm not a nice person. I have never been. If you're expecting tea and cakes, you’re gonna be disappointed.”

Vonya had appeared next to him as he was walking across the quad leading back to his building. He sighed.

“I get that, and I'm not surprised. But it's like every time we meet, I'm in a struggle. It’s exhausting and not helpful, and draining.”

“Yeah well.”

“Yeah.”

He felt Vonya sigh beside him, then a hand catch his elbow, and he let himself be turned around.

“I said I would answer three questions. Are you really so pissed that you still don't wanna ask?”

Otabek looked at the lord, knowing he should walk away, but unable to deny that he was in fact, extremely curious.

“Ok but I don't want to ask all three in one go.”

“Fair enough. You ready now?”

“Don't you wanna tell me why you're here first?” Otabek said, shifting on his feet. “That's not the question by the way.”

Vonya began walking in the direction they'd started, and Otabek followed, watching the sunlight falls on is straight blonde hair and change its colour. 

“Yes. It’s about your game. It’s an important one. Don’t fuck it up.”

“Will you be there?”

There was a beat of pause, then. “I'm always there.”

“Alright. Important how?”

“There is a scout going to be there, he’s from the Olympic team, but he’s going to be a lot more scrutinising than the last few guys that came your way. You've got what it takes though, just don't do anything dumb.”

“Like what?” Otabek asked, genuinely puzzled.

“Like getting high or drunk the night before, having a fight, breaking a leg. I can only do so much, boyo. Also, there will be a lot of people at this one, so make sure you put it all over your social media, or Bill will and you might not like what he decides is appropriate.”

“How does that even help?”

“Is that your question?”

“No.”

“Well, then ask away, jock-boy.”

They were walking side by side now, a slow amble in the approaching evening, and Otabek enjoyed the way their legs swung in time. The feeling of the moment was different from before, more relaxed, more like a rhythm than a chase. He felt a semblance of ease the lord's presence for the first time when not kissing.

“Well, there's one that's been eating at me for a while, which is why I went to do research in the first place.”

Vonya yawned, obviously.

“Bill showed up a while ago to set up a social media account for me. Instagram I think. And he was sort of chatty.”

“You mean, talking to Bill is like talking to a verbalized chat window?”

Otabek laughed, “Exactly. It was like he was reading texts to me instead of talking.”

“Sometimes he actually only talks in code. Matrix -type shit. If you're lucky you might see him in his Neo outfit.”

“That could be..interesting.”

“Huh, that’s a word you could use.”

“Heh.”

Their slow amble had brought them within sight of Mary House and Otabek stalled.

“Um, let's sit out here.”

Vonya gave him an arched look. “Why? Scared I’ll jump you in your room?”

That was exactly what Otabek had been thinking, and then some. He should have known better than to be polite. He hid his smile under his hand.

“Well, that did cross my mind. And while it’s fun for you, it's not for me, not really.”

“Oh like you didn't come your brains out last time.”

Otabek felt his good mood dissipating. “Yeah but. Well, it was hollow.”

Vonya stopped and turned to him. “Hollow.”

Otabek fought the feeling of being flustered under his gaze. “Well, firstly, you seem just to do it to put me off balance, which I don't like. And then you always vanish before I can ask you anything. Last time, you just left because I called you “ _Yuri_.’”

Vonya was still watching him, and he tried to fill the space with words. “I just don't like the feeling of being played with. And I don't even know why you keep doing it if you're not enjoying yourself…”

“I enjoyed myself,” Vonya interrupted, though the words sounded forced.

“Sure.”

“Hey, idiot,” Vonya said, poking him in the head. “I don't do anything I don't want to. And I don't lie because I don't care. Call me Yuri, it’s fine. But if you want to get me off you're gonna be disappointed.”

Otabek deliberately didn't say he already was and instead, “Why?”

“Hello?” Vonya said, standing with his legs apart and crotch thrust out, indicating the space between his legs. “I don't have a dick.”

Otabek nearly choked on his spit. “What?”

“I'm a god, moron. I don't have genitalia. I don't have hormones, or blood, or anything. It's just a body that does stuff when I need it too. I literally have no desire to breed.”

“Then why did you kiss me?” Otabek said quickly. “Yuri.”

Vonya stance relaxed, and he looked a little lost for a moment before the familiar smirk came back.

“It’s like you said. It's fun.”

“How could it be fun?”

“Because you're such a closeted dork, and I'm a bully.”

“Yuri,” Otabek said again, heart sinking though he hadn't realized it had been hopeful. “So it really is just you bullying me then.”

Vonya sighed, and Yuri turned halfway back to look at him. “I enjoyed your enjoyment. Is that enough?”

In spite of himself, Otabek felt the tilt in his chest, the squeezing disorienting moment when admiration turns into a real crush. Yuri shrugged and turned away again, heading towards the bench placed just outside the entryway doors, and Otabek followed.  Unlike Yuri, who flung himself on the slats like they were the plushest cushions, slumping and one ankle resting on a knee, Otabek settled carefully, making sure they were at least a hand's length apart. He picked at the crust of his remaining sandwich, contemplating that there were other ways to bully people that didn't involve giving them mind-exploding blowjobs. 

“You enjoyed my enjoyment?” he asked instead.

Yuri’s figure argued with the suit he wore. While Mammon looked immaculate, as if born with a suit instead of skin, Yuri slumped inside his, even though it was tailored to his long form. His shoulders slumped where the jacket wanted to be straightened, creating creases where there shouldn't be. The fabric across his knee strained, not designed to accommodate such a position. Even Yuri seemed to grow tired of it, enough to pull it off his shoulders and toss it aside carelessly, showing high waisted pants and a crisp white shirt that crinkled underneath cream colored suspenders, and Otabek lost his breath. 

Yuri pointed a finger at him. “That is what I mean.”

Otabek whipped his head away. “What, looking good and making me blush?”

“Well, there's that, but no,” Yuri said, leaning forward on his knees so he could look at Otabek’s face, his hair loose and swinging. “I can see you, the real you, inside.”

“What, you mean like my soul?” Otabek replied, disbelieving, and Yuri waved a dismissive hand.

“You can call it that if you like. Or aura, or being. Whatever. The point is, we gods can see it, and that's why you can't lie to us, ever. And every time I show up, your light glows and that's kind of fun. I don’t get a lot of people happy to see me.”

The sandwich was now forgotten in Otabek's hand, but not by the pigeons in the trees a short distance away. He turned to Yuri. “I glow? Does that, uh, not happen for everyone?”

“Sure. Everyone. But every now and then, something shines a little brighter, a little stronger than others. Those are the ones we see first, and want the most.”

“Why?”

“Because those are the ones that can change the world.”

“Ok, but-”

“This is a lot more than three questions.”

Otabek noticed the hopeful birds near his feet now, walking their uncertain jerky walk and decided he wasn't going to finish his sandwich away. He started picking bits of bread of and tossing it to the ground, where it was fought over with bird-like ferocity.

“Right. Well, my first real question is this then; were you human once?”

A breeze Otabek hadn't noticed playing about their feet, died, and the evening was suddenly chillier. Yuri turned his flat, expressionless eyes on him.

“Why does it matter?”

Otabek swallowed. “Because I want to know.”

Yuri frowned at him. “Yes.”

“Hello there.”

Otabek turned to Yuuri, who had come up behind him, though Vonya didn't once look away.

“Hey, Yuuri…” Otabek said quietly.

“Who's your friend?”

Otabek turned back to Yuri, who was now Vonya again somehow, his blazer back on his shoulders and face once again settled into an angry kind of boredom. He gave Yuuri a very slow, obvious once-over.

“Oh, you’re one of hers,” he said, the glanced at Otabek. “Figures your roommate would be another one of you.”

“Yuri…” Otabek said, standing up.

“I answered your question. See you at the game.”

The wind moved aggressively through the trees, making them whisper loudly, then ceased, and Vonya was gone.

“One of  _ what _ ?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So many parts of this chapter I liked, but my fave was making Yuri agender ;)


	14. 14

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Otabek and Yuuri get drunk and don't sleep together.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Again , sorry for the lateness. Life has been insanely busy lately and it's year-end and and and and...  
> I have not forgotten this fic. It's still going. I promise.

Otabek had managed to avoid the question and Yuuri for a few days, while circumspectly looking for any kind of definite sign that Yuuri was in fact, another sacrifice. Like he was. 

The one thing that kept springing to mind was the tattoo at Yuuri’s crotch, and the words “one of hers’ but since Yuri was ignoring him again, he had no way of knowing for sure. 

 

The one relief was that Yuuri seemed just as wary of him now, giving him side-eyes and looking away when he was caught. It was a relief, and also, not.

 

Yuuri was his friend. It was nice to have one of those. And one of the best thing about Yuuri’s friendship was the lack of stilted awkwardness that stained most of human interactions, bar family. The weird, unpleasant suspicion that was leaking into the space between their beds in the dorm room made Otabek uncomfortable.

 

But how do you bring up something like that? ‘Hey, so you might have made a deal with god too? Hows that working out? Wanna compare experiences?’

Actually, that was exactly what he wanted to say, but couldn't, for obvious reasons.

 

Luckily for him, the decision was snatched from his tangled head one Thursday night, after he and Yuuri had sat in silence, each on their bed, studying and...not studying. Even though this wasn't unusual, exams were like a heavy millstone around their necks, it felt tense in a way that Otabek hated and froze his tongue.

Then Yuuri heaved a huge sigh and tossed his laptop to the side, looking at him directly.

“Ok, we need to talk.”

Otabek was a deer in the headlights. Yuuri held up a finger. 

“I have the best thing to grease the rusted gears in this.”

He reached under his bed, which Otabek was beginning to think of as a mysterious and carnal place, and rummaged around until he pulled out a bottle of something gold colored, its label saying something in a language Otabek didn't know. He unscrewed the lid and held it out.

“You first.”

Otabek hesitated a moment before closing his textbook and taking the offered moonshine.

“What is this?” he asked, sniffing it cautiously.

“The direct translation is Pork Beer. But it's basically rum.” Yuuri answered.

Otabek risked a taste, found it alcoholic and mildly sweet, thought about the conversation he was about to have and took a much bigger taste. Then he stretched to offer it back across the divide between their beds until Yuuri decided with a sigh to hop off his own and onto Otabek’s instead. Otabek felt himself tense up immediately but was determined not to show a thing.

“Ok, so. Can we talk about the tall hot blonde now?”

Otabek figured that would be a good place to start, and he nodded.

“He your boyfriend?”

“Hell no.

“Sex friend?”

Otabek took the proffered bottle again and nearly choked on the sip. “Why would you say that?”

“Because you were looking at him like a dog hoping for scraps.”

Otabek turned a shocked expression on his friend. “Excuse me?”

Yuuri took back the bottle, arching an eyebrow. “Don't give me that, I was there for two seconds and it was clear as day. You like him, obviously.”

Otabek stared hard at the opposite wall, where Yuuri had hung up a series of colorful looking sarongs.”Um..sort of. It's, complicated.”

“Ok,” Yuuri replied, clearly disbelieving. “Next order of business. What did he mean by ‘one of hers’?”

Now there was look shared between them as the bottle was passed back into Otabek’s hands, that was an entire silent conversation. It went like this:

 

_ I know a thing but I don't know if you know the thing. I want to know if you know the thing without telling you I know the thing. So, do we know the same thing? _

 

Otabek took a longer sip this time, urging the alcohol to make him just a little bit more prepared, or at least give him a clue. He stared at the label, spotting a cartoon illustration of a pig underneath one of the Kanji's, looking pleased with itself. He sighed.

“This stuff isn’t working.”

“Have some more.”

Otabek did.

“Um, so.” Otabek began. “That guy was... One of the contractors I work with. I mean, Sponsors. Who helped me get into college.”

Yuuri’s eyes followed him even when he tipped his head back to drink, watching him.

“And he’s a bit odd sometimes. Says odd things.” Otabek tried, knowing he was failing, leaving too many gaps.

“Uh huh,” Yuuri said flatly.

Otabek rubbed his face. Why did this even matter? What were the actual chances he would meet and room which another sacrifice? What kind of weird fucked up coincidence was that? But then again,  _ was _ it? The lords were fucking conspirators, they enjoyed moving pieces around like a board game. And if Otabek was really honest with his most childish, selfish self, he actually just really really wanted to know. 

He wanted to know if Yuuri was a sacrifice too. Wouldn't it be nice? To know?

But how the fuck to even bring up something like that?

Yuuri snatched his phone from the desk and typed his code in, before finding an image and shoving it in Otabek’s face, making him squint at the photo of a curly armed symbol.

“Have you seen this before?” Yuuri demanded.

Otabek looked again, and flushed a little. “Uh, yeah...around your. Bits. Your tattoo.”

Yuuri clicked his tongue. “I mean do you know what it  _ means _ ?”

Otabek darted a glance at him and shrugged. “No?”

The look of disappointment was obvious and the phone was lowered. “Oh.”

After a beat of silence, in which Otabek didn't really notice the insidious warmth creeping through his arms and making him a little looser, Otabek rolled up the sleeve of his left arm, revealing the Mark. “Um, do you know what this means?”

Yuuri looked at it. “Well, I figured it was some sports thing. You know, the olive leaves-”

“Olive leaves?” Otabek said looking at the symbol. “I thought they were laurels.”

“Oh well, I guess it could be. They’re both sort of similar. Laurels are more about war and victory though.”

“Uh huh.” Otabek said. “That makes sense.”

“It does?”

With a huge sigh Otabek decided he was tipsy enough to excuse himself the next day, if this went south. But took another swig for good measure.

“What if I said that this tattoo  _ isn't _ a tattoo, but actually, like, more like a brand?”

There was the silent conversation again, and Otabek was on unbalanced tenterhooks, waiting.

“Someone branded you?”

“Kind of,” he replied. “Yes.”

“Um,” Yuuri said, nodding hard and taking the bottle back. “Um. Yes, that makes sense. A lot of sense.”

“It does?”

“It does.”

“Oh. That's good.”

“Yep.”

They each took another drink, and neither of them noticed that the Pork Beer was almost gone.

“Um, so it's a brand, in return for a favour,” Otabek said very slowly, moulding the words as they came out of his mouth.

“You did them a favour?” Yuuri asked incredulously.

“No no. They did me one. But he said I had to wear this, to make is long-term,” Otabek gestured to the mark. Was it his imagination or did it seem bigger than before, almost the same circumference as a mug. To test the theory Otabek took the bottle, finished it, and place the bottom over the mark. It just about covered the leaves.

“Bastard, it  _ has _ gotten bigger,” he groaned.

“Can I see?”

Otabek’s arm was grabbed and wrenched closer, but he slumped into it, letting Yuuri bring it right up to his face.

“It's not like a tattoo,” Yuuri said, half questioning.

“Nope. It's a mark.”

“A brand.”

“A reminder.”

“She didn't even fucking warn me,” Yuuri grumbled.

“Yeah, neither did he.”

There was a clear sort of moment when both of them realized exactly what was being said and exactly what had been admitted to. Yuuri broke the tension first, throwing his face into his hands.

“Christ!”

“...yeah, that's what I always say. And the then Vonya goes ‘ _ not Christ, just me _ .’ Asshole.”

Yuuri turned watery eyes on him. “Vonya? The god of war?”

“And sports.” Otabek added defensively. “And you, uh, Eros?”

Yuuri folded himself double, curling his arm under his folded knees like some weird yoga pose, head dipped forward onto the sheets.

“Yes. Oh my god. She was so gorgeous.  _ Is _ so gorgeous. And I needed this scholarship so badly. When she came to me with an offer, it just made sense… except none of it makes sense because how can they be real!?”

“I know!” Otabek exclaimed. “And none of them answer a damn question, no matter what I ask.”

“Wait, you talk to them.?”

Otabek nodded. “Yeah, when they show up, which is whenever they want. And then I just have to make it happen. Like here.” Otabek fished his phone out of his pocket and shoved it at Yuuri. “Bill... whatever he is made a social thing for me, and now if I don't post at least one selfie a week, he starts posting for me. Like a fucking virus!”

“Woah,” Yuuri responded quietly, staring at the phone.

“And then Mammon, he’s just bossy. Taking my books, telling me to ask Yuri of all people-”

“Whose Yuri?”

“You met him. The tall blonde. Except he’s not Yuri, he’s Vonya.”

“ _ That’s _ Vonya?”

“I  _ know _ .” Otabek groaned with feeling. “And he is  _ such _ a dick, you cannot even understand how much. He is permanently in a bad mood, and doesn't care, and  _ bullies _ me…”

“Wait, he hurts you?”

“No, I mean he teases me...like at the mixer.”

The dawning of realization makes no sound and Yuuri’s eyes went wide. “He’s the one who gave a week-long boner?”

“ _ Don't _ . Just don’t,” Otabek said blushing, his stomach sinking at the thought. “He’s an asshole and loves to show up uninvited. And he throws a mini fit because I don't ask him stuff directly, then just dances around the answers.” 

“It's amazing that he talks to you.”

Otabek frowned and looked at his friend. “What do you mean?”

Yuuri shrugged, loosely wiggling his shoulders. “I met them all once when we made our deal. And Eros once more, when she hooked me up with the website that hosts my channel. But it's not like I have a relationship with her.”

“I don't have-”

“You know what I mean.”

They sat in companionable, mildly miserable silence, the Pork Beer sloshing around their stomachs and heads.

“So...I guess we’re not alone huh?” Yuuri said eventually, looking at nothing.

“Not even close. I saw Vonya's’ mark on a player for Liverpool.”

“No way.”

“Way. I think, people like us, are everywhere. It’s not like it's gets advertised.”

“So, you made a deal for the scholarship too?”

Otabek shifted uncomfortably. “Kind of. More like, a platinum deal. Full ride, sports career, everything.”

“Woah.”

“Yeah.”

“What did you have to pay?”

Again, Otabek felt discomfort. “It's hard to say. Same as you kind of.”

“What?”

“You know? Worship?”

“What?”

Otabek looked at Yuuri’s slightly lopsided confusion and realized that he really did know a lot more than he probably should. 

“Yuri..Vonya, explained it to me once. That, when we do the things that connect to their, uh, idea? It's like food for them, fuel. So when I play well, or get a sponsorship deal, or make the crowd cheer, that's like worship for them. Him. I guess when you...do your thing…”

“Me playing with toys is  _ worship _ ?!” Yuuri’s eyes were falling out of his head.

“And making people come? I don't know! Didn't she explain any of this?”

“No! She just said that in exchange for four years of college I had to keep being a cam boy and getting clientele!”

Otabek rubbed his face, and decided he needed to pee. Standing up proved difficult. After a few false starts, he got there and turned to his friend. 

“I need to piss. And maybe throw up.”

“I’ll join you.”


	15. 15

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Merry Christmas and a happy new year!

When one pulls  a rubber band, to its maximum point, it becomes warmer. This is because, to put it simply, the entropy of the rubber band is in play. In other words, there is an argument happening within its polymers, its material, the argument of being both stretched and trying to retract itself becak into its natural state. 

The heat produced from this argument, when potential energy is maximised, when there is the moment of almost breaking and constant pull back, is a lot like how Otabek felt before a big, important match. Except he wasn't the rubber band, he was the heat.

 

Everyone in the locker room was stretched tight, their tension stretched tight between their want and their expectation. The joy and agony of potential energy is that it is not predictive. They might win, they might lose, but until the final whistle, no one could know. Until then, there was the heat.

 

A Lot of impossible things are achieved with heat. And most of them start with determination.

As the team jogged out onto the field, the scent of freshly cut grass, hot dogs and clean air met him and he took a deep, steadying breath, and found himself reminded of Vonya. 

 

He knew that the Lord was sitting in the stands without being told. It was just an inimitable knowing like something had simply dropped the knowledge in his head without using his ears or mind.  He knew that if he dared to look, blonde hair would catch his eye first without even trying. Sohe kept his head resolutely turned forward, focussed.

 

Yuuri was in the crowd too tonight, he knew. It was the first match Yuuri had come to, since their friendship had been solidified with mutual secrets. It was nice, but it was also a weird thing to bond over.

Durin nudged his shoulder. “You here?”

Otabek startled only a little, but flashed him an apologetic look. “Sorry. Yeah.”

“Good because if our star player hasn't got his head in the game, we could be fucked. The Ferrets are no walk in the park.”

“I’m here.” Otabek reiterated more firmly, and this time, he was.

His teammates separated and found their places, heels dug in and waiting while he met his opposition in the center field. The stands hushed some, the ref came up with the ball, placing between him and the guy who mirrored him. A shiver of electricity ran over his shoulders, and on the edge of hearing, a deep, thumping beat was escalating as the referee took a breath, and blew a sharp, piercing  _ thweet _ into the air.

Sparks flew.

 

-8-

 

Yuuri gasped.

 

“Oh my god he’s actually amazing.”

 

“No shit, Sherlock.”

 

When Yuuri had recovered from swallowing his tongue, he let himself get a better look at the guy suddenly in the seat beside him. Well, as much as he could do through intense sideways glances. But no matter what, his inherently gregarious nature had gone completely on strike for once in his life and he could not say a damn word. How do you greet a god? Did he have to bow or something?

 

“For the love of fluorescent silicone dildos, could you stop staring? Or at least, if you're going to, do it properly.”

 

Vonya stood, tall and proud and dressed from top to toe in a black suit that looked like it cost more than Yuuri’s entire tuition. In his mind, black on black suits were reserved for the rich, powerful and dangerous and Vony looked...appropriate. Extremely. The black satin of the tie tucked into a jacket, slim lined around his hips. The fabric was dusty charcoal black, but the shirt was a deeper, more luxurious fabric and Yuuri's keen eye saw obsidian pyramids in the cufflinks, catching the light and muting it. The ensemble was neat, curated art and only made more stark but the untamed curtain of gold hair landing carelessly over flat shoulders, and the flat, cat-like shine of green eyes.

 

“Had an eyeful?” Vonya inquired, lifting a cold eyebrow.

 

“Oh my god.”

 

Vonya only returned to his seat, either uncaring on unnoticing of the ripple of attention he’d caused in the crowd. As beautiful as he was, Vonya belonged in a high court, high society, upper-class everything and most definitely not sitting in the sun-brittle, cheap plastic seats with rock hard chewing gum stuck to its undersides.

 

“Now shut up.” Vonya added, eyes trained on the field and players.

 

Yurris snapped partway out of his Vonya-induced daze. “Rude.”

  
  


“Did you have the impression we were friends?” Vonya returned coldly.

 

“I-I did not-”

 

Yuuri tried and shut up, sitting back in his chair, making it creak. He tried to respool his thoughts. 

 

Vinay was beside him, he clearly knew about Yuuri’s job, or del or whatever, and he was watching the game. Probably for Otabek. After the first drunken night, and many many questions, Yuuri had reordered the way he understood things.

 

But there was one thing that still didn't quite fit. Not completely. He cleared his throat.

 

“Well, you could be sitting anywhere. Instead, you're sitting next to me.”

 

“Don't let it go to your head,” Voya responded, not looking his way, his disinterest clear.

 

“I mean, not me Yuuri, but Otabek’s friend. So I mean, there's some sort of connection-”

 

“No.”

 

“But you could’ve-”

 

“No.”

 

“Wow, he told me you were rude.” Yuuri grumbled, folding his arms.

 

Vonya, still without taking his eyes off the field, leaned slightly closer to Yuuri, almost but not touching shoulders, and Yuuri felt the fine hairs on his neck and face lift, as if near static electricity. His tone was low, deeper than such a young looking person would normally have.

 

“Did he also tell you I don't give a fuck?”

 

Yuuri swallowed, throat dry. “Something like that.”

 

“Good. now shut up.”

 

Yuuri’s lizard brain was struggling between healthy survival tactics and being turned on, and 

leaving him feeling annoyed. He gave up and focussed on the player again, having to search a few moments before singling out Otabek again. They were all wearing the same damn uniform after all. But there was a beautiful  _ athletic _ second, where Otabek’s right leg stretched out and stole the ball out from between the legs of someone on the opposite team. It was gasp-worthy, even for Yuuri who cared less about sports than he did about world economics. His chest expanded a little with pride in his friend, and resolved to tell him just how impressive he was to make even an anti-sportsperson like himself appreciate the game, even for a moment.

 

“He’s gold, isn't he.” It was a statement, not a question and Yuuri glanced back to see the satisfied half-grin on his perfect face.

 

“Like the song.” Yuuri replied absently, still watching Vonya’s face, but was shocked out of it when Vonya’s lambent gaze turned sharp and met his.

 

“The song, by Sam Sparrow. Black and Gold. Cos you’re dressed in...black…” Yuuri trailed off, the flatness on Vonya's eyes making him feel small.

 

“Stupid.” Vonya sighed and turned his attention away again. “He‘s gold. And everyone can see it. Even you. Which is why the agent they send to scout for Olympic teams is here today, because she  _ knows _ . Talent like Otabek Altin is like a magnet.”

 

“Did you make that happen?”

 

Vonya only made a small motion with his hand, which told Yuuri nothing except that Vonya didn’t care enough to answer him. 

 

“Is that-” he stopped and restarted, trying to sound less eager. “Is that how you all work? You manipulate things so that they work out best for, um, us?”

 

Vonya didn’t deign to look at them again. “We do _ nothing _ for you. We don't care about you. You are a means to an end, fodder and vehicles for food.”

 

Yuuri blanched a little. “Otabek didn't explain it like that. You make it sound so cold.”

 

“If you put a little bit of your limited brain power into it, you will see it makes sense.”

 

Yuuri was fast losing his earlier star-struckness. “You really are such an asshole. Otabek said you were, but I just thought he was- ugh whatever. At least Eros doesn't bully me.”

 

“You thought he was what?” Vonya inquired, his tone a little more edged.

 

“Thought he was just sour over his lovelorn crush on you. But  _ jesus _ , you really aren't pleasant.” Yuuri stood up, grabbing his jacket as he did. “ And let me tell you something, mister the-gods don't-give-a-damn.’ I've seen Eros, _ my  _ patron, a total of one time. And Otabek is very chatty with me and from the sounds of things it's not normal for you Lords to go around pestering your sponsorees - sacrifices - whatever!”

 

Yuuri made his hasty way over knees and outstretched legs to the aisle, but Vonya was intent on the game once more.

 

 

-8-

 

 

Number 3 has been harassing him, more than simply being an equally talented player on the opposing team. He was the type to whisper snide comment, make swipes with his arms of hands that were just shy of touching skin but enough to cause a distraction, not enough to be yellow carded. He had quick feet, and more than once, twice, Otabek and he wrestled for the ball snatching it from between each other's feet. 

 

#3’s tactics were escalating. The game was winding down, and they were ahead, and the Ferrets could scent the loss approaching. It made some determined, it made some ansty and it made #3 angry. Otabek was starting to watch his movements closely, knowing that people like this guy only waited for the moment when the ref was blocked from sight to place an elbow or strike a shin. 

 

He could feel it. Bearing down like a thunderstorm. The final whistle approached, the second sliced away. Even the watchers felt it, their groans or their urging cheers adding friction to the atmosphere, spurring them on, feeding into an endless loop of energising anticipation. Otabek was slick with sweat, he’d played his heart out today, kept straight and sure, as intent of the field as a commander in battle. But his muscles burned and now #3 had sensed it.

 

_ Its coming its coming _ , Otabek recited to himself, unsure of what he even meant by it, but the words rotated in his mind, as he watched the goal, and the ball, and the goal, and the ball…

 

Then a sharp spiked boot came into his vision and time slowed. Otabek saw its trajectory, angling for his shin and couldn't stop it.

 

Then the air was gold and green, the edges of his vision sparkling with finde gold mist. He caught the glimpse of emerald coloured eyes, warm and indulgent, and saw a slim finger stroke the edge of the oncoming boot for a second. Then the moment returned, the boot veered off, making #3 skid awkwardly on the ground, tearing up grass in his wake, while Otabek’s feet took over. He executed a jump/spin over the man, kicking the ball with him, and heading once more to the netting between the goal posts.

 

There was that moment, when Otabek knew that a goal was about to be scored. He could feel it in the swing of his leg, the bended hinge of his knee, the momentum of his body in the right place at the right time. It was an inevitability.

 

_ I dedicate this to Vonya  _ he whispered into the void before his boot connected, and the goalie was a mere shadow next to the ball, which went straight where Otabek had sent it.

 

The stands exploded.

 

 

-8-

 

 

Otabek was nearly crying, and he wasn't the only one. You’d think that they'd won the world cup instead of a college match. But it was important, this one was important, for the college, for the team, for the supporters. And they had WON.

 

After handshakes were exchanged, in which Otabek could barely hide his glory-fueled grin, the team crowded back to their lockers exchanging back slaps and rough hugs. Otabek lingered behind, walking a little slower allowing himself the indulgence now, at the end of battle while the ground was still hallowed. And he saw it, black and gold, standing and leaning forward on the railing, while the crowds dispersed.

 

“Did you see?” Otabek breathed, his chest urging forward.

 

“I saw.” Yuri glowed. “It was for me. I saw.”

 

“It was.” Otabek affirmed, hands open and smile wide. The bubbling, overflowing happiness was there and he could admit it to himself that it was just as much because Yuri was there as the win itself.

 

The tall black-clad blonde came down the stairs and hid in the crook of wall created by the stands, and crooked a finger. 

 

Otabek went without hesitation, sliding his hands around Yuri’s waist like it was the most natural thing to do, his eyes full of gold and glory.

 

“You’re glowing.” Yuri told him softly, hand over his chest, and Otabek didn't even care that his skin was clammy and he stank.

 

“Kiss me.”

 

The archway of the door kept them mostly hidden, but Otabek didn't care if the world saw. It could stand and watch them on their pedestal for all he cared. The throbbing of euphoria boomed between their chests, growing and receding, loud enough to drown out sound and wash through his ears as he licked into Yuri’s mouth, taking his prize.

 

_ This _ , he thought. _ I want this. I want Yuri _ . And he felt it more authentically than anything in his life before, felt it burst from his chest, both painful and sweet at once.

 

He was pushed away, and felt suddenly cold, the looked of blank shock on Yuri’s face drenching him.

 

“No.” Yuri told him. “No, Otabek Altin.”

 

“No?”

 

Yuri shook his head, slowly, like he was unsure.

 

“But,” Otabek tried, his euphoria fading. “It was for  _ you _ . I like  _ you _ .”

 

“It was for Vonya. Not me.” Vonya countered then slapped a hand over his mouth.

 

“I like you.” Otabek said again, sure this time but Yuri was shaking his head, eyes growing harder.

 

“It can never happen. You are human. A stupid, expiry dated mortal.”

 

“But you-” Otabek faltered, working around the hurt. “But you were human once.”

 

“I am  _ not _ human!” Vonya shouted. A sharp finger was put to Otabek’s chest and pressed until it hurt. “ _ This _ will die, I will not. You are merely a tool, a meal. You get what you want, I get what I want. It's a deal.”

 

Otabek swallowed, now feeling cold ache directing itself outwards from the point where Vonya jabbed him. “But  _ I  _ want you.”

 

“And I  _ don't  _ want you.” Vonya returned coldly, all trace of the accepting pliant yuri gone. “You are a tool at most, a toy at least. Amusement. What could you have to offer me other than your worship?”

 

Otabek finally staggered back from the pointed finger. “ But…”

 

“This is why.” Vonya jeered. “Humans are fools. And you're one of the biggest, dumbest ones I've ever met.”

 

He vanished, leaving a void in the passageway, and Otabek starving for breath

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sigh. And things were going so well.


	16. 16

“ _ I’ll  _ take it!”

“I said _ I _ would!”

Otabek didn’t bother trying to stop Anuar and  Arina from arguing over who would take his one and only bag into the house. He met the eyes of his youngest sibling,Roman, who still lingered at the door. He was half curled around the frame, as if he’d wanted to come out but unsure.

“Have I been gone that long that you don’t recognise me?” he teased.

“He’s worried you're gonna be angry with him.” Anuar piped up from Otabek’s left, hauling the prize of Otabek’s luggage with him.

“Why would I?”

“Because he drew all over your walls in crayon.” Arina responded with an accusing look at Roman, whose eyes were now wide and guilty.

It was an easy thing, to swoop the small nearly six year old up into his arms, kiss him soundly on the cheek and cuddle his stiff little body. 

“I don’t care Ro’. They’re only walls.”

“I just missed you.” was the small reply.

“I missed you too.”

“And me!” 

“Me more! Did you miss me Beka?”

It was his first night home in a long time, and the family felt whole for a while. Dinner was happy, silly and warm, while his siblings fought to tell Otabek the latest highlights of their lives and his parents fought to get them fed, bathed and bed. He of course, was easily roped into pajama time and the nightly ritual of reading from a 2010 copy of  _ Ripleys Believe It or Not _ . Then his father opened two beers and offered one to Otabek, as he had  _ never _ done before. His sleepy eyes were proud and relieved that his oldest was a triumph, a  _ success _ , thank god. His mother made sure he was full of food, and then overfull, and refused to let him touch any of the clothes he’d brought home unless she’d washed them herself. He let them fuss and lavish their pride. He hadn't been able to give them much before now.

 

Then he went to his room, which was as it always had been, and still clean. As he sat gingerly on his bed and his eyes rested on the chicken scratch crayon on the wall next to his desk. It could just possibly be interpreted as a human figure, maybe. Or two. Maybe some flowers? Clouds? If clouds were green.

 

Then he lay back on the clean bedding, listening to the creaks and plinks in a house that was familiar and also not his anymore. 

And ached.

It had been simultaneously an age and less than a week since  _ Yuri  _ had become  _ Vonya  _ in the space of a kiss, and Otabek had realised he was fucked. He berated himself for it, but, as he rapidly found out, it was surprisingly easy to hate someone you were in love with. It also made him realise that he’d probably been in love for some time already. But the knowledge didn’t exactly help. It only made it worse, and his chest hurt like it a dumbell had fallen on it.

 

What kind of idiot falls in love with a god? Except he realised that history ( mythology?) was full of idiots just like him who had done exactly that, so wasn't it nice to know he wasn't alone? Stories like his weren’t supposed to be real, and they never ended well. Odysseus and Achilles weren’t exactly around to pass out advice.  

Still, the rejection hadn’t felt like a  _ god  _ putting him in his place. It had felt snide, derisive and mean. It had felt vindictively human, when Vonya had pushed his fingernail into Otabek’s chest, like an accusation, like a warning. It had been both Yuri and Vonya who’d rejected him then.

 

He’d been scouted again, and the Olympic agent hadn’t even tried to skirt around her offer with attractive words or carrots on sticks. She’d simply told him that he had a spot with them, and as soon as he was old enough, she would send the contract. Her ebullience had washed over his haze, but he’d nodded and agreed and told his parents. So far, Vonya was doing his job. The bargain was still in play.

 

It was only Otabek’s heart that was broken.

  
  


-8-

  
  


“See?”

“I see it?”

“Such a child. It’s so clear he’s the youngest of us.”

“Now now, that's not fair.” Mammon disagreed, but it was without any real heart.

“To throw such a tantrum over a human’s...affection.” Eros replied. Mammon was intrigued.

“You do not think it’s ‘love’?”

Eros and Mammon stood together in the inbetween, the nothingness swirling around  them, respectful, reverent. Eros, her hair a bright red brand in the nothing, fanned her fingers away from her face, a gesture of mild irritation. Her voice held a French accent this time, which matched the pout of her lip and the off-shoulder white dress she wore.

“My specialty is lust. Love is...less linear. Everyone is different, every ‘love’ is different. All the boy knows is that he wants Vonya, and only Vonya.”

“That could be love.”

“Or lust. It is always difficult to tell so early on.”

“Besides, he did not call him ‘Vonya’.”

They were silent, seemingly gazing at nothing together, though in their eyes they watched said God of War as he soared over a dessert, the heat making the air and himself waver.

“And for him? I doubt he would have gotten so angry if there wasn’t something there.” Mammon mused eventually.

“As I said, he is the youngest of us. He might still remember what it was like.”

“To breathe.”

“To feel.”

“To  _ want _ .”

“Well, we all know how to want.” Mammon agreed.

“Not as humans do. We want knowing we will have. Humans, all they know is want, the idea of desiring something that you might not have so strongly it becomes need....I do not remember this.”

Mammon nodded. “It is a little early though, for his term to be over…”

“Says the god who hasn’t relinquished his seat for over a millennium.” Eros pointed out.

Mammon looked away, his jawline elegantly avoiding. “I haven’t become uncomfortable. I haven’t felt the need to return to humanity.”

“I suppose…” Eros sighed, her pout become even poutier. Mammon noticed and turned his sharp gaze on her, which she met squarely.

“I only say that not everyone wants to remain in their seat. Not all of us wish to become one and the same, such as Hubris.”

“Do you want to return? You have served at least two tenures. It would be your due. Have you found a replacement?”

“Hmm.” Eros answered noncommittally. “Perhaps. But I do not want to give up my godhood.”

“And so?”

Eros shrugged elegantly, letting the shoulders of her dress slide down even further. “I’m being summoned.”

She disintergrated, leaving nothing behind except Mammm with a bemused expression on his angelic face.

 

-8-

 

**_Moscow 1763_ **

  
  


_ The stage was cold, the auditorium empty and as unsympathetic as it always had been, and Yuri knelt, his eyes whittled down to pinpoints of terror. _

_ “You didn't say-” Yuri panted. “You didn’t say it would be this!” _

_ The revolvers barrel was pressed against his forehead, again, staying in place while Vonya chuckled, smiling wide. _

_ “Well if I had told you you had to die, then your cowardly self would have turned tail and fled. Maybe found a ship to get you away from the country? Go into hiding? Beg a different theatre to somehow make it so you would never see battle? So you could  dance again.” Vonya’s eyes glowed now, a dirty, murky red that flowed from his eyes like smoke, curling up under the brim of his hat. Yuri held back tears, not out of choice, but out of years of being told that Boys Don’t Cry. But his body sweat, his back and armpits had already soaked, his ankles and feet were slick too, bent at odd angles where he’d collapsed into the floor. _

_ “I don’t want this.” he begged. “Please, I changed my mind…” _

_ “You can’t change your mind, little coward. A deal is a deal.” Vonya repeated, lighting the cigarette in his mouth by touching the glowing end of his finger to it. “You made a coward’s bargain, but by the end of your tenure, you’ll have seen so much war you’ll have the cold, dead eyes of a soldier, without ever having fired a gun.” _

_ The gun cocked itself. Yuri heard the scrape of metal minutely, and flinched when the bullet slotted into the barrel. _

_ “Don’t worry. 333 years is all. It’ll be over before you know it.” Vonya told him slyly. “Now, I just have to make the exchange.” _

_ The trigger pulled. Yuri’s head fell back and fell and fell and fell… _

_ Something drew him in, huge, welcoming and celestial. When he opened his eyes, they still felt closed, and yet he saw the stars and galaxies stretched out before him. Larger than cities, or countries and planets. Too large to be real, to large to be anything  but real. _

_ Five rings, but he was being pulled towards one. _

_ He struggled briefly, his meagre spiritual resistance melting away as he realised there was nothing evil about the ring, or the presence that drew him. Things that were celestial were neither good nor evil; they simply were. _

_ As he drew nearer, the ring, which he’d been certain would swallow what was left of his bodiless being, became smaller and smaller, untill it was barely the circumference of his chest. It was the width of his pinky and comprised of a substance he had no words for, but some eternal part within himself recognised anyway. _

_ “ Here I am .” He called to it. _

_ “ And now you are. ” it replied. _

_ He was threaded onto the ring like a bead on a string, the line of it passing through his centre and connecting, irrevocably to his being. He saw his previous incarnations behind him, women and men from every era until they disappeared into the distance, and on his other side, the ring that went on, bare and beckoning. _

_ “ For one cycle, you will remain .” all the voices stated. “ Unless you choose more .” _

_ “ I didn’t choose this .” he whispered, but it was lost, his young voice weak against the years behind him. It was done, he was them and himself and War, a being outside of time. _

_ And then the world came back and he was staring at the smiling, if slightly shining face of the one who had been Vonya once. _

_ “Doesn’t it feel glorious?” the man panted. He seemed less now, as if gravity knew him and time touched. Yuri/Vonya still stumbled and fell. The wooden floor of the stage unnaturally hard and unfamiliar under his feet. _

_ “You’re a bit taller now. Slimmer.” the man said to him, still cocky and still an asshole. “Guess you kept most of yourself though.” _

_ “What did you do?” Yuri said to the floor. He struggled to see it as it was, mere planks of wood. His new mind now saw the stretch of time around it: it was a seed, a sapling, a verdant tree, it was dessicated and rotting. It was a  plank of wood . _

_ “I retired. The thing about being a god is that there always needs to be a vessel. Because the gods were created by humans, humans are needed to withhold their place here. Because of the connection between the heavens and the earth on which you stand. However, you could have looked like anything: boy, girl, tall short, beautiful with seven breasts even. Why you chose your same old face...well, I suppose vanity walks hand in hand with cowardice.” _

_ “What….what do I…” Yuri thought he might throw up but there was nothing there. No food. No stomach, nothing. _

_ He heard steps clomping away, and laughter decorating the air like black snow. _

_ “Good luck dancing now.”  Vonya tossed back. “There’s always a fight somewhere.” _

_ Against his will, Yuri was swept away. _

  
  


-8-

  
  


Somewhere around day four of being home, Otabek found a moment of respite from the never ending demands of his starstruck siblings and went to mope out on the back step overlooking their small backyard.

 

It wasn't a pretty sight; miscellaneous sunbleached toys forgotten and unloved littered the edges. There wasn't enough money to spend on watering a garden. Especially one such as this, where the soil was cracked and in desperate need of fertiliser if it ever wanted to grow anything other than scratchy crabgrass. It seemed a good vista for his prevailing mood.

 

Scrolling through his phone his was alerted by a message. Yuuri had been texting him at least once a day since break started, and he generally replied, though he couldn't really force much energy into his replies.Yuuri must have picked up on it, and at least had the decency not to pick at it. Otabek opened the message, leaning his head against the peeling railing beside him.

 

Yuuri:  **_hey Otabek. So here’s an interesting thing. Guess who texted me asking for your number? I’m not gonna wait for your slow reply so I’ll tell: Anastasia. Um, can I give it to her? She’s really nice. But i get it if you’d rather not_ ** .  **_Anyway, just let me know before I die. Ps: she is really is a good person._ **

 

Otabek managed to quirk an eyebrow. Well, why not. The best way to move on was to just move. He texted back:

 

**_Sure go for it. Thanks buddy_ ** _. _

 

The vibrating reply was nearly immediate.

Yuuri:  **_yes! Good for you. I’ll text her right now_ ** .

 

Otabek turned the screen off and set the phone aside, and thought about her. Blonde, but pretty. Good looking in a pair of pink shorts. A kindness to her face that stuck out in his mind. Yeah, it might be nice, who knew? It couldn't be worse. He sighed hugely, forced himself to stand and stretch, resolving to go for an evening run. Exercise was as good a therapy after all.

 

His eye caught a scratch of colour on the whitewashed wall of the house. Roman had a very eclectic approach when it came to his choice of canvases. Not that he didn't know it wasnt allowed, he just knew and did it anyway. It seemed he had found another isolated, forgotten corner tucked between the house skirting and the stairs to draw in. after leaning over the creaky railing and changing his mind about that, he walked down the three steps and around to get a better look. Squatting low, he viewed the crayon drawings with amusement. It looked like this spot got quite a lot of attention; nearly the entire side of the staircase was full of scribbles and drawn figures, old and new. He recognised, their mother, and maybe Anuar judging by the yellow hair and razor sharp teeth. He’d never gotten along with his older sister; well in a sibling sort of way.

 

The newer drawing stood out more; broader crayons, brighter colours, surer lines. Such a little artist. He thought he recognised a figure that might have been himself, except he’d been drawn in green and then inexpertly colour over with a lot of black.

“Don’t tell mama.” 

Otabek looked up, surprised, then smiled. “I won’t but you know she’ll see eventually.”

“But she never goes out here.” Roman said, sitting on the top step and leaning over the edge of it, his head hanging upside down over his art. “Do you like them?”

“I always like what you draw.” Otabek answered. It was easy to reach up and grab Roman’s underarms, turn him around in midair and plop him down into his lap. Roman giggled, unafraid, used to his oldest brothers fooling around. Otabek pointed to the image of himself.

“Is this one at night?”

Roman shook his head, pursing his lips like he was trying to stop words getting out. Otabek chuckled. “Hey it's ok. It's your drawing, it can be whatever you like.”

Romans large brown eyes were like their fathers, always slightly worried about something. “I had a dream. You were in it.”

“Good dream?” Otabek inquired.

Roman looked away again, shrugging. “It wasn't good or bad. You were just there, standing in this big black cloud. You looked happy, I think.”

Roman climbed off his lap and touched the figure. “I draw it as soon as I woke up, cuz I was trying to remember. But I don't know if I got it right.”

Otabek swallowed. “I think you did fine. Do you always draw the dreams?”

“Only the ones I can remember. It's like, poof. I have to be fast.”

“And what about this one? Is that Anuar?” Otabek distracted, pointed at another artwork. Romans face immediately became sour. 

“That wasn't a dream. That was after she put peanut butter in my hair. I hate her”

“You dont hate her.”

“Ok, well...I don't like her. Alot.”

“Would some revenge help?”

Romans face lit up and Otabek laughed.

  
  



	17. 17

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm on le Tumblr if you wanna holla at me. If you wanna complain go to storylover. And while you're there, go check out her stories.
> 
> https://micaelavdb.tumblr.com/
> 
> http://storylover92.tumblr.com/

The sands were endless, when Vonya flew at mortal speed. He let the sun bake his hair, and try to burn his manufactured skin. His corporeality fluttered behind him like an ephemeral cloak, sucking in sun’s heat and giving nothing back.   
  


Time was something subjective from Vonya, for any of the gods. They were chained to it, yet exempt from its rules, and as such the gods could view existence in terms of events, one after another instead of the chopping away of seconds. So he delved into the red ring, the celestial bind that created Vonya, pushing away the weakened, shivering part of him that wanted to breathe, eat and feel the press of lips against his once more.   
  


It wasn’t that Vonya hadn’t dabbled in sex, or lust a few times already. Every now and then, when the years became boring or an idea appealed, he would fashion his body once more, adding the appropriate genitalia and organic substances, indulging in the effects of pleasure and coitus. It made an interesting distraction, an interesting experiment in the feasts and foibles of humankind.   
  


Slowly over the years, he’d lost any need or desire, having found out as much as he was going to it seemed. It was a trialsome and tiring thing, to involve oneself in the affairs of mortals more than a god already needed to, in order to survive. The gods were intermediaries only.   
  


But he was once human. And the most human part of him had been growing steadily, insidiously without his realising and was now more real than it had been in over a century, pressed at him, recalling Otabek’s fervency, earnestness, and the taste of his naked adoration pressing against temporary flesh

 

Being human hurt. Being human, more than anything, was pain and the lack of escape thereof. Being a god was power, and the permission to slip away from the vulnerability of mortality. Even in his early days as Vonya, he’d never felt that leaving his life behind had been any great sacrifice. Although, with the privilege of hindsight, he’d understood that his previous vessel had been a first-class bastard, and had left nothing to chance when making Yuri’s transition as painful as possible. It didn't have to be. The trauma of it was enough, but Junius Aurelias had been a stain of a human even in  _ his _ humanity.

 

-8-

 

_ The Yuri that was Vonya that was Yuri that was Vonya...endlessly.there was no war between existences. He was Vonya. He was Yuri _

 

_ He was the Vonya that was Yuri that was Vonya...and so on. _

 

_ He was Vonya, so he was tugged to a distant place Yuri had never seen before, all heat and humidity and green closing him in as one group of men slaughtered a different group of men. And he felt nothing, only acknowledgment, because War was War. _

 

_ He was Yuri so he watched in horror as a man’s head was severed from his body with crude sharp weapons, slowly, with agonizing ineptitude as the gored flesh was eventually hacked away, until both victim and murderer were slick with the red vita. Vonya felt the exhaustion of the still living man, his pulsing heart, his uncertainty whether what he had done was right. _

_ And he was pulled away once more. _

 

_ -8- _

 

_ There was still too much Yuri in him when he witnessed his brothers die. _

_ On the battlefield, he laid bare, in the war he had resented and feared, traded away his humanity to avoid. _

 

_ He had seen many small wars, small clashings of spirits, and this was the largest yet. He was not prepared, and he had no choice. His brothers, always the loud ones, always crashing through life as he’d grown were gone. One lay on his side, his legs and neck twisted the wrong way to be alive. The other missing half a ribcage and slowly choking to death on the remains of his blood. Their blonde hair dirtied with mud and grease, pale green eyes staring at nothing, the sky obscenely bright. It wasn’t right or fair, that the day should be so lovely, the morning mist so gentle over the plethora of bodies while Yuri watched. _

 

_ There was most certainly too much Yuri left in him, but the sight was burning it away like a photograph over flame.  _

 

_ His father, was also, nearly dead. White mists echoed in his eyes, seeing beyond it already. Yuri still knew the curl of his eyebrow, the flare of hairs that refused taming and gave the impression of sternness even when there was none. The rattle of death sounded from his mouth, stained his lips black and red. Yuri watched his father’s life hissing out of him, in the cold stark morning. _

 

_ “Papa…”  _

 

_ There was a twitch from his father’s body, the difficulty of movement around his lips. Yuri reached out to touch, but his fingers refused to land. _

 

_ Then the man was gone, and only the godling was left. _

 

_ Too much, far too much Yuri left over. _

 

_ -8- _

 

_ Vonya saw Junius Aurelius once more before he died, a mere few months after the bastard had handed over the mantle to a young, ignorant Russian boy. _

 

_ When he was dying. _

 

_ “Your body is weak,” Vonya said, the first words he’d spoken since calling out to his father. _

 

_ Junius was halted mid-hacking cough, startled sideways into a wall, then the cough returned sounding like it was being ripped from his throat. He knew, retrospectively, that humankind had developed immunities against certain diseases, illness that started innocuously and destroyed quickly. Though still subject to virus, humanity was healthier than it had been 300 years prior, and could stand again the smaller kind, bounce back from the plaguing of mucus clogging the airways, cementing the lungs. _

 

_ Junius had not realised this, when constructing his new body. Believing himself to be the pinnacle of human physiology, he’d simply reconstructed the same body he’d been forced to leave behind down to the smallest white cell. _

 

_ “How inglorious, to die from a cold.” Vonya observed. “You’ll not survive the night.” _

 

_ More coughing, blood too. Finally, Junius could croak out some speech. _

_ “You are War, not Death. Begone with you.” _

_ Vonya did not. “I want to watch you die.” _

 

_ Eyes that were bloodshot from the force of coughing, weeping thick mucus tears, found his. Vonya stood dispassionate. Junius grated out a chuckle. _

 

_ “Ah there they are.” he wheezed. “The eyes of a soldier.” _

 

_ “I do not see soldiers as you do.” _

 

_ More hacking that might have started as weak laughter. “Oh? Not the glow of victory, the boil and seethe of blood in the midst of-” _

 

_ “No. “ Vonya cut him off. “You ruined it. I’ve seen that now, even in my short time. This not how it should be.” _

 

_ “It’s war, you foolish child. Not a prize. It's made of hate and power.” the man drew a laboured breath and leaned heavily against the wall. “Spare me your mewling. Leave me.” _

 

_ “No, I'm going to watch you die. Here.” _

_ Vonya bent legs that were now perfectly built for dancing, and now would never do so. “I watched my brothers die. I watched my father drown in his own blood.” _

 

_ Junius chuckled, it sounded like gravel under a wheel. _

 

_ “And then, I went back to see my mother.” _

 

_ She had been alone, folded into the smallest version of herself in her customary chair that neighbored his fathers. She held a kerchief to her haggard face, eyes bloodshot and ringed in blue. A house that once been filled with the noise of a boisterous, all male family, was eerie now. And his mother, the only surviving ghost, desolate. _

 

_ “You deserve to die.” _

_ Even as he said it, Junius was overcome once more, his lungs trying hard to expel the liquid therein but too exhausted to do so. Vonya heard, to the tiniest decibel, the bubble and wheeze in his areola, he heard how the airways were too tight to pull in more air, and the silent screaming of his body for more air that would not come.  _

 

_ The body cooled, in a small puddle of its own liquids, stiff and cold the next day. _

 

-8-

 

Vonya sped over dunes, even the things that slithered and stung scuttled out of his way. They understood the dark cloud of foreboding hat shadowed the sands, in an ingrained way though unspecific. He was knives that were more red than silver, and he was words sharper than blades. He was the crushing despair that came with defeat, he was the feeling of loss and failure. He immersed himself in this, the balancing of scales, the complete objective involvement of a god and its trade. A god doesn’t know good and evil, only reward and loss.

 

There were a lot glows, other lighting mortals who shone within his orbit. Ideal rainmakers, reward bringers, interlaced with skill and talent, their fates and whims reaching out to him and his kin and tying them together. Vonya had many deals, he was not a starving god. Even though many of them intersected with the other four of his kin, they still brought him power and vitality. He tried to force his will into them, but it wasn’t so easy. What used to be as simple as a thought was now a push, an effort, and the once pinpoints of light, now dim glows. But push he did, pumping effort into those who he had tied strings to: a young girl, barely of age, lusting after Olympic medals. A man, whose medals were already won but begging for more time, more famIrishirish gunsmith trading for elevated status, walking the dangerous tightrope between bargain and fortuity.

 

Then, a twitch. A wrinkle.

 

An aberration so slight it was like the grain of sand on the oyster’s tongue.

 

Vonya turned his attention to it.

 

-8-

 

“It’s not your ACL, but it could’ve been.”

Relief washed through Otabek’s body like a wave. “Oh god.”

His physiotherapist chuckled goodnaturedly, standing up and fetching a pump bottle from a shelf. The office was small but comfortable, and while it was decorated with a fair number of personal items, it still had a professional air. Although Otabek had been staring at the skeleton positioned in the far corner, a purple glitter party hat perched roguishly on its skull, and a party trumpet between its teeth. Well, it was good to know she had a sense of humour.

Dr. Thorne sat down on the wheeled stool again, squeezing an amber coloured oil into her hands, still smiling knowingly. Rubbing her hands together hard, she said, “yeah I don’t blame you. If you had stretched it just a little bit the other way...well, your career would be over before it began.”

The words gave Otabek a real shiver, and goosebumps raised on his arms and neck. “I guess I got lucky.”

“Or some god is smiling down on you.” Otabek stiffened. “Or an angel, as my mom used to say.”

Her hands were warm and began to massage at the strained muscle inside Otabek’s leg, her face calm but eyes serious. “Just relax a bit here?”

Otabek worked at letting his body relax into the masseuse table again, heart beating again. “I don’t really believe in that stuff.”

Dr. Thornes shrugged. “It's more the idea, that something else is watching out for you. Close scrapes that could be worse, almost but not quite losing a game, it's nice to think that there is some kind of benevolent feeling towards you in those situations.”

“Do you?” otabek said, wincing a little as her thumb dug into a pressure point. “Believe in..uh..god? Or angels?”

“Well sometimes. Cases like yours happen too often for me to be totally agnostic about it.” she replied. “Can you lay on your side for a sec?”

Otabek rotated carefully, wincing. His knee complained all through his thigh, ending in a pitch just next to his knee cap. At least he knew he was in good hands, literally. Dr. Thorne was  _ the _ physiotherapist and kinesiologist to the stars, and as soon as word had gotten out that Otabek Altin had damaged his scoring leg, sponsors had lined up to give him the best possible care to fix the money maker. With his coach’s guidance, he’d settled on being sent by train to Wisconsin  to meet with Dr. Thorne, chewing his cheek all the way. But the 42 year old doctor had immediately set him at ease, capability in her every movement and word. Even now, the pain was finally lessening and Otabek could breathe easier than he had in the last 24 hours. Sighing, he let himself be kneaded, forcing himself to remain lax even when it hurt, answering her questions when she asked. Forty minutes later, he was still aching, but could move without flinching.

“Alright, you can sit up.” she said finally, her tone as warm as her hands, and she definitely gave off a maternal air that set him at ease. “I’ll have to just write this up, and give you a script. You have a doctor i can refer this to?”

“Uh no, it’s just me. This is the first time I've been hurt enough to even need a doctor.”

“That can’t be true.” she grinned.

“Well, between two parents and three younger siblings, you learn to look after yourself instead of spending money on a doctor.”

“Ah, I see.” she nodded, putting down her writing pad. “That explains why you weren't in worse shape when you arrived.”

Otabek nodded a little bashful. “Well, I've wanted to be a player since I was a kid, so researched some stuff…”

“And that's how you figured out how to prevent a tear?” she inquired, still smiling. “Not every teenager goes and finds out how to look after themselves incase of a torn ligament.”

“I looked up everything I could. Anything that looked likely really, I tried to know as much as I could. I didn’t want my parents to have to worry about it, and...well, it was useful knowing when to use a ice pack and when not.”

Dr. Thorne didn’t hide her impressed shock. “That's not bad though. Even people who want to study anatomy don’t always retain that much.”

“It wasn't studying.” Otabek scoffed.

“Sounds like studying.” Dr Thorne shrugged, going back to her desk. “What's your major?”

“Uh, haven't decided really.”

“Well, you're getting a free ride. Why not do something with it? There are worse things than knowing some kinesiology.”

Otabek blinked, speechless and she chuckled at his expression.

“I just need to check with my secretary for the next appointment for you. I might be in Portland then.”

“Okay.”

Left alone in the room, the scent of bergamot strong in the air, Otabek tried to sort out his head. Tired from lack of sleep due to pain, too relieved from the sudden lack of it and the thought of actually putting money into something he’d learned out of necessity...it was...he was too foggy still.

 

He took the chance to retrieve his phone, turning it on in the automatic swipe that any millennial could do without even a first thought. Immediately he saw notifications from his sponsor, Yuuri, Anastasia and several others from instagram and social media in general. He ignored most of them, swiping them away and out of sight, hovering over Anastasia's a moment before clicking it open.

 

He wasn’t avoiding her exactly, he was just...figuring out how to flirt again. The crash and burn with Vonya had left him off-kilter, and Anastasia’s sweetly open demeanor felt strange to him, and he often found himself at a loss with how to reply to her texts. It wasn’t as if they were constant, but they were there and Otabek was often scrambling embarrassingly for replies that weren't ‘yes’ or “not really’ or ‘that’s great.’ So far, she had initiated every conversation because whenever Otabek tried, he could only think of questions about the weather or studies, both of which were subjects they had exhausted after three messages.

 

The latest message was a sweetly concerned inquiry:  **How’s your leg? I can’t believe they flew you all the way to WC, just made it seem worse. How bad is it really?**

 

Otabek bit his lip, thinking way too hard about how to make a reply that wasn't just ‘it’s fine.” The door opened and he turned the screen off, silently relieved. Looking up, he lost his breath.

 

Vonya, for his part looked just as wary as Otabek was shocked. 


	18. 18

Otabek’s brained finally fried.

 

“Ho…” the word came out, a bastard child of ‘hello’ and ‘hi’ and he heard as soon as he said it, unstoppable and terrible.

Vonya raised one finely arched brow. Today he was dressed in less formal wear, looking like just another eighteen year old; scuffed jeans, black- and white all-stars, a plain white shirt with some generic rebellious print, with dog tags on a long chain that complimented the line of his neck.

 

“Ho?”

 

The plastic on the massage table creaked a little as Otabek shifted, eyes looking down so he could collect himself. “I meant ‘hi’.”

 

“Yes, I’m sure you did.”

 

Some of Otabek’s shock burned away and he tried to move off the table and winced, the pain lancing like a lightning bolt underneath his knee cap. Terror froze him but long, cool fingers were there in an instant. With strength that didn’t match his physique, Vonya shifted Otabek back onto the bench, with one hand under his shoulder and the other cradling the aching knee.

 

“Don’t move that way.” Vonya told him calmly. “Be careful.”

 

Otabek breathed out through his nose, but even as Vonya spoke, the ache in his knee eased away, leaking the tension from his body. Vonya’s thumb pressed lightly into the soft space in the hinge of his knee still, his face in repose. Once more, he smelled like strange things that were misplaced in that room; fresh rain on dry soil, the lingering acid scent of a burned out firework. It made his stomach ache, and he turned his face away.

 

“Why are you here?” he said eventually.

 

“My brightest spark injures himself, potentially destroying his future career. It’s not something I can ignore.” Vonya replied evenly, his fingertips dragging softly on Otabek’s skin before lifting off. “You should have called me yourself.”

 

Otabek flexed his knee gingerly, then again with more strength. It was as good as new. “I figured you would rather not hear from me.”

 

“Why would you think that?”

 

“The fact that you told me to fuck off and then stopped showing up for nearly two months?”

 

There was the flash of green, too sharp to be friendly and Otabek was drawn to it in spite of himself. “That’s the exact definition of ‘cutting  your nose off to spite your face.’ You’d rather be permanently injured than invoke our deal? Childish.”

 

“Well, you would know Yuri.” 

 

Well, even Otabek could acknowledge that that was a pretty childish thing to say, and he hid his face in his hands. “I’m sorry. Sorry, really. I’m tired from being in pain for a day and night, I was terrified up until 4 minutes ago, and you, as usual, show up out of nowhere and I’m just...still bitter. Thanks for fixing my leg, I’ll be going and explain to Dr. Throne why I’ve experienced a divine healing.”

 

Otabek didn’t even make it to the door.“Bitter?”

 

He sighed. “I honestly don’t want to talk about it. I’m trying to move on. I promise I’ll still hold up my end of the bargain, you don’t have to worry about that.”

 

Vonya snorted behind him. “It’s not as if you have a choice in the matter, but your willingness is noted.”

 

Something that had been niggling at Otabek’s mind finally materialised, and he turned to face the god. “Why are you being so polite?”

 

Again, another green flash, and the scent of burned matches.”I have manners.”

 

“Not usually, no.”

 

The crease was growing between Vonya’s perfect brows. “Ungrateful.”

 

Otabek shrugged, laughing helplessly. “I don’t even know why you're still here. Your investment is safe, you can go back to treating me like the dirt under your shoe.”

 

An aura washed over him then, it was smell and experience at once, ashes with glowing edges, the heat of stamped shoes, warm rain on dusty ground. Otabek was enveloped and lost, once more. He ached to reach out and touch the figure who was now completely before him, to roll flax-coloured locks through his fingers, to press a hand against a flat abdomen. To whisper consolations and clever jokes and forge the links that would bind this soul to his.

 

“Please don't.” he begged. “I’m really, really trying…”

 

“Even when I was human, I was never good with people.” Vonya’s face was hidden, head bowed, so close to Otabek’s face. “I barely recall it…but you are making me remember.”

 

Then he was gone, and Otabek sucked in a huge breath. When Dr. Thorne opened the door, she bumped his back, making him stumble forward.

 

“Oh I’m sorry…” she paused, sniffing. “You know there's no smoking in here right?”

-8-

  
Dates. Dating, Otabek could do.

 

He could even be adorably charming, he’d even been called sweet. So on the way to the coffee shop on the lower tiers of the Science faculty, he fell in step next to Anastasia and lost all his the awkwardness he managed through an LED screen. Oh yes, Otabek was good at dating.

 

His jokes were witty and he could tailor the mood so that his partner felt like they were the only one in the world ho mattered. In a way, they were. Otabek enjoyed throwing himself into courtship, it was fun, the glistening newness of initial attraction that could potentially turn into mutual admiration. What wasn’t there to enjoy?

 

The brush of skin when hands bumped accidentally, the shy smiles afterward. Otabek enjoying paying for snacks, or the movie, or the meal, but he was just as happy to cede it over if the company was good and it wasn't a weird power play. His favorite part was finding out what made his date smile. If you figured out what made someone smile, you actually figured out alot about them.

 

Anastasia liked dancing. And champagne colored cats. And Russian fantasy novels. She was sweet and smiled easily, and was very understanding when the movie they went to see was actually terrible and laughed when they discovered they both had that exact same opinion. Her hair was sleek natural blonde, her eyes pale blue and her body supple. When he walked her back to her dorm building, her kiss was chaste with the promise of more. Otabek found her slight blush quite adorable.

 

When Yuuri came back to their room from his latest rehearsal, he raised an eyebrow at Otabek, who was sitting cross-legged on his bed, tapping away at his laptop. He tugged his earphones out on seeing his roommate.

 

“What you up to? Assignments already? You got back like yesterday.” Yuuri said as he slung his gym bag to the floor.

 

“Trying out a new synthesizing software,” Otabek answered, pausing his current creation. “How was your break?”

 

“More importantly, how was the date?” Yuuri replied instantly, his side-eye more expressive than any normal person would be. Otabek gave a half-smile.

 

“It was nice.”

 

Yuuri’s face deadpanned, “nice?”

 

Otabek shrugged. “Yeah.” when Yuuri didn't say anything, and his eyes were boring uncomfortable holes in Otabek’s face, he swallowed.

 

“Uh, we went to a movie?”

 

“A  _ nice _ movie?”

 

Otabek blinked. “What's wrong with nice?”

 

“I just-” Yuuri cut himself off and shook his head. “Nothing. Don’t mind me.”

 

“I mind you. “Otabek insisted, shutting his laptop. “Are you ok? Did something happen on break?”

 

Yuuri burst out laughing. “Otabek, calm down. I’m fine. I just don't want to butt in on your love life, so I shut myself up before I butted.”

 

“Oh.” Otabek relented, a little confused. “Ok? Yuuri, it's been one date.”

 

“And a date should be more than nice.” Yuuri let slip then clapped a hand over his mouth. 

 

“Sorry. Sorry. I'm shutting up now. What do I even know, right?”

 

Before otabek could reply, Yuuri has swiped his robe form the closet and let himself out of the room again, leaving his roommate nonplussed.

 

What was wrong with nice? Otabek collapsed onto his bed, to stare at the ceiling. His phone vibrated and he picked it up to see a message from Ana. Holding the phone over his face, he stared at the notification and Yuuri’s implication clocked into place. He knew from experience that when receiving a text from someone you were dating, it usually caused a little more excitement. But here he was, looking at the screen, without opening the message. If he as honest, he was more keen on finishing his latest synthesisation than reading the message right then. 

 

He let the phone fall on his chest with a sigh. He would try harder. It wasn’t fair to Ana, if he was just going through the motions. And he was determined not to...to be…

 

To move on. For real this time.

 

-8-

 

“Vonya.”

 

Mammon was resplendent. There was no subtlety about the garb he wore, all yellow gold jewelry encrusting every finger, and the dead lion skin draped over his shoulders, it's black claws tapping against the medals and badges covering his coat. Vonya glanced over his shoulder from his position on the balcony and snorted.

 

“A crown? Really?” he said and turned back to the view, which was the bright, sparkle of Tokyo city, like the worlds biggest, glitziest necklace. Mammon had hundreds of apartments, flats, and lofts around the world, all the best money could rent or buy. Without explanation, Vonya had found his way to his Tokyo loft, with his only purpose apparently to stare moodily over the cityscape.

 

“You would look more appropriate with a martini in hand,”  Mammon replied evenly. A hand was waved, the decadent royal clothing removed to reveal and smart casual shirt and dress pants. And a martini.

 

“Who the fuck cares how I look, old man?” Vonya retorted viciously. What was the point in drinking when you didn't have a stomach? Or organs? Or the ability to get drunk?

 

Mammon leaned against the railing, his back to the vista, the multicolored light reflecting off his chrome haircut. He sipped at the wide rim of the belled glass, to all appearances enjoying it. His throat bobbed as he swallowed, and took another sip. He let the silence drag out until he realized that Vonya had no intention of breaking it. The young Lord was brooding, it was obvious, but there was no way he was going to admit it. It was also entirely likely the Vonya had no idea that he  _ was _ brooding at all.

 

“I wonder,” he began casually, “how long we will all let you have your little tantrum?”

 

Vonya turned slowly. “What did you say?”

 

“I said, that the argument between Vonya and Yuri was entertaining at first, but has lost its luster. Are you going to make a choice anytime soon?”

 

Warm air wafter over the wide balcony, teasing loose tendrils of hair. “There is no choice. No Yuri!”

 

Mammon chuckled. “Incorrect. You are so obviously arguing with your humanism, otherwise, why would you be so irate? unsettled?”

 

The air picked up, and brought the scent of burned rubber, or charred wood, with it. It may have been the reflection of city lights, but there were sparks of red and green in his eyes as he straightened. “Be careful what you say old man.”

 

Mammon mimicked Vonya’s stance until they faced each other like chess pieces on a board. 

 

The breeze whipped around them now, bringing the sounds of heavy vault doors closing, the crackle of newly printed bills mingling with the echoing ratatat of Ak-47. Mammon smiled a million dollar smile.

 

“Careful now, little Lordling. You know better than to set your spears against me.” Mammon warned, his voice like gold plated bullets. Vonya contained his miasma, but only just.

  
  


“I came here to-” he stuttered to a halt.

 

“For company. Very...human thing to do.” mammon finished for him.

 

Sparks flew from Vonya’s mouth. “I left that behind.”

 

“Impossible. What makes us gods are humans. What makes humans the way they are are us gods. We are an interlinked, ineffable cycle. It’s inescapable.”

 

“And yet you still manage to be an entitled asshole,” Vonya replied waspishly.

 

Mammon inclined his head and spoke quietly. “You’ve never been the most..pleasant to get along with, but you’re in top form lately. How much more in love must you fall, before you stop fighting it?”

 

The wind abruptly stilled around them. It didn't drop, it stilled, the motes of dust, the miniature leaves of the bonsai in the corner all stilled mid-motion.

 

“Lord’s do not _love_ ,” Vonya said, whispering.

 

“Of course we do and have done. Love is not a thing of flesh and bone, but of spirit and intelligence.”

 

Mammon held Vonya’s astonished gaze. 

 

“There are worse things than falling in love, Yuri.”

 

And then, the air moved once more, and Mammon was alone.

 

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Vonya and Victory](https://archiveofourown.org/works/14094426) by [AphroditeB00w](https://archiveofourown.org/users/AphroditeB00w/pseuds/AphroditeB00w), [story_weaver](https://archiveofourown.org/users/story_weaver/pseuds/story_weaver)




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